


Dangerous Game

by myrthrilmercury



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2014-2015 NHL Season, 2015 Stanley Cup Playoffs, 2015-2016 NHL Season, 2016 Stanley Cup Playoffs, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Awkward Boners, Awkward Flirting, Babbling, Bad Cooking, Best Friends, Bisexual Male Character, Break Up, Champagne, Chance Meetings, Concussions, Confessions, Cuddling & Snuggling, Declarations Of Love, Denial of Feelings, Developing Relationship, Drunken Shenanigans, Drunkenness, Dry Humping, Emotional Infidelity, Emotional Roller Coaster, Exhaustion, Falling In Love, Family Drama, Frottage, Getting Together, Heartbreak, Horny's A+ Parenting, Implied Sexual Content, Inappropriate Erections, Insecurity, Male Friendship, Matchmaking, Meddling, Men Crying, Moral Dilemmas, Mortal Kombat, Movie Quotation(s), Movie Reference, Movie Spoilers, Multi, Musical References, Non-Explicit Sex, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Obsessive Behavior, Past Relationship(s), Pining, Post-Trade, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rare Pairings, Second-Hand Embarrassment, Self Confidence Issues, Self-Discovery, Self-Hatred, Sexual Fantasy, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Song Lyrics, Teasing, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Voyeurism, the fact that's even a tag amuses me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-11
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-23 11:10:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 19
Words: 38,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9653441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrthrilmercury/pseuds/myrthrilmercury
Summary: Marc could be a real punk in return, but there was something adorable about it. It gave Patric the same sense of accomplishment he had initially received from presenting game pucks to him. Maybe that’s why the interactions became a part of their warmups.Or maybe he just needed a routine.Which was what he always tried to convince himself whenever he started pondering the tangled web of emotions that were beginning to take root in his subconscious.*NOW COMPLETE*





	1. When One Door Closes...

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by, and loosely based on, the song "I'd Be Surprisingly Good For You" from the musical "Evita."
> 
> Title from the song of the same name from the musical "Jekyll & Hyde."

_When one door closes, another one opens._

Patric Hornqvist repeated the mantra silently to himself as each step towards CONSOL reverberated throughout his legs; seeking validation in those words, yet still not believing them. 

Malin was right that a trade was a blank slate, but the move from Nashville had made him wonder just why he had been traded. He had something good going down there—or so he thought.

Whenever he expressed his concerns to Malin, she’d smile and tell him not to worry. She had a point: there was no rhyme or reason to some of the machinations of the league’s GMs. 

“You’re amazing,” she’d say. “You have a great net presence, you take opportunities to score, and you skate really well.” She would grin before adding, “I know a thing or two about that last one.”

But if what she said was true…then why was he now in Pittsburgh, heading to his first team orientation as a Penguin? Was he not good enough for the Predators? Or was there an ulterior motive to unloading him?

Whatever the case, to say that the Penguins were in a rebuilding stage was a severe understatement. New coach, new GM, and pretty much an entirely new locker room, Patric included. If everyone and his brother were trying to fit in and get adjusted, it would be a lot less awkward.

That still didn’t calm Patric’s nerves, but at least it was a step above his very first NHL training camp, where he had spent half an hour in the bathroom beforehand somehow managing not to throw up.

The wheel of fortune was spinning in Pittsburgh, and it was far too early to determine where it would stop. Despite this, Patric still saw what he felt were harbingers of doom: namely, the fact that Crosby and Malkin would not be available for the beginning of camp, because of injuries—in the _preseason._

Maybe he was overthinking things. For all he knew, they’d heal, the team would gel, and they’d all have a decent season.

Even so, Patric couldn’t shake the feeling that he was now a lemming walking off the cliff, taking those final few steps before plunging into the fiery pits of hell.

***

With training camp being what it was, there was really no getting to know management or the coaching staff beyond the general introductions first thing in the morning. There would likely be time for that later, and while Patric did want to get a feel for the chain of command, he wasn’t as worried about that as he was about what came after the opening comments from Jim Rutherford and Mike Johnston.

All of the players, newbies and veterans alike, had been given free reign for half an hour to get to know one another before it was time to reconvene.

And suddenly, once again, Patric was a solitary fish at the edge of the ocean, unsure of how he would fit in with the rest of the school. 

The anxiety alleviated slightly when he discovered that Sidney Crosby (Sid, as he wanted to be called) was really quite easy to talk to. Somehow, it was fitting that they’d been reunited after being in the 2005 draft together, which Patric made sure to mention. “Flower would say it’s fate,” Sid had remarked with a slight chuckle. 

The conversation was all too brief, but Patric was at least able to get a good read on Sid. Namely, Sid was definitely the hockey-playing robot that Patric had envisioned him as, but if he played his cards right, he could get him to loosen up. 

Overall, it seemed like a friendly, fairly chill group. The hardest part would be matching nicknames to faces. At least that would take less mental effort than memorizing plays and formations. 

Patric contemplated this fact as he made his way through the crowd, scanning faces, questioning whether there was anyone he hadn’t spoken to yet.

“You’re…Patric, right? Hornqvist?”

Patric turned abruptly at the sound of the voice behind him to discover that, yes, there was someone he had missed. Someone very important.

How could he have forgotten to introduce himself to the starting goalie?

“Fleury.” Patric grinned as he spoke. “Yeah, I’m Patric. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you.” The faint smirk evolved into a beaming smile as Marc-Andre Fleury extended his hand to Patric, who clasped and shook it gently in response. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Likewise,” Patric stated, feeling slightly sheepish now as he released the other man’s hand and retracted his own. “Um, so, the guys call you Flower?”

“Call me whatever you want,” Marc replied with a half-shrug of his left shoulder. “And what about you…I heard the Predators called you Horny?”

Now Patric really _did_ feel sheepish as he regarded the moniker his old team had saddled him with. “Honestly, people are probably gonna be calling me that regardless of what I say, so you can call me that. Or Pat. Whatever. I don’t care.”

“I’ll get back to you on that one. Maybe Pat in front of Estelle though.”

Estelle? Oh, right, his daughter. “Yeah, at least Isabella can’t talk yet, so…”

Marc’s features changed yet again, this time perking up with interest. “Oh, you have a daughter, too?” 

“She’ll be seven months next week. How old is yours, again?” If nothing else, at least they had one thing in common they could talk about.

“Almost a year and a half. She might be getting a little brother or sister in the summer, though.”

“Oh, really? Congratulations!”

 _“Might_ be.” Now it was Marc’s turn to look sheepish. “Though if she is, at least I’m not a nervous wreck this time.”

Patric nodded in understanding. “Yeah, Malin always told me I was worrying too much, back then.”

“Well, how can you _not?_ I mean—” Marc’s voice trailed off when they both realized the crowd around them was beginning to depart. “Tell you what, we’ll finish this later.” 

“All right, later,” Patric said before heading over to join his other teammates.

***

By the end of the day, Patric wasn’t sure just why he had been so nervous.

Everything around him was rock solid. Solid players, solid plays, solid organization. There was good camaraderie on and off the ice, and everyone was easy to get along with.

Although he spoke with all of his teammates again at least one more time, most of the conversations revolved around his new linemates. It was only natural—after all, he’d be spending a ton of time with these guys in the future.

But when they were both unoccupied, he spent the most time talking with Marc. They had long since wrapped up their initial conversation, but kept discovering that there was so much more to talk about. And how couldn’t there be? The guy was fascinating. 

While he didn’t say _that_ to Malin later in the evening, she did seem thoroughly pleased with how everything had gone for him that day. 

“See, I told you, everything will be fine. You’re making friends already. Besides, they can tell us where all the good places in town are.”

“Good point.” The thought of his teammates playing tour guide had not even occurred to Patric. He had been so worried about fitting in with his new team he hadn’t even considered getting acquainted with his new surroundings other than figuring out how to get to the various facilities and back home. 

“These things take time anyway.” Malin finished clearing the dishes off of the table and walked over to the kitchen. The sudden silence broke after Isabella cooed inquisitively.

“Hey, little lady.” Patric stood up from his chair and lifted Isabella out of her high chair, silently thanking any deities that may have existed that she was now old enough that he could pick her up after dinner  
without something gooey flying back out at him. “Were you a good girl for Mommy today?” The only response was a hand tugging at his shirt.

Patric was part of a solid team, and best of all, he had a solid home life with his two favorite girls. Maybe this would work out after all.


	2. The Pride Before the Fall

By the beginning of the season, Patric wondered just why he had been so worried about everything.

Not only was he getting along with the guys, but Malin was also making her own friends among their wives and girlfriends. Patric wasn’t particularly interested in what the women all did whenever they got together, and wasn’t about to ask, but Malin needed some company other than a seven-month-old. If the women were all off doing something while he was free, it gave him some one-on-one time with Isabella, which had been sorely lacking in recent weeks. 

Patric had gotten into the habit of texting and chatting with some of his teammates during the off hours, but soon noticed that he spent a disproportionate amount of time talking to Marc. He often called him Flower out loud, like the other guys did, but it didn’t seem right, somehow. Vero seemed to agree whenever she wasn’t using one of her pet names for him. The immediate friendship between Patric and Marc had the added bonus of extending to Vero and Malin, who also hit it off fairly quickly. Isabella was still a little too young to play with Estelle, but she had a built-in friend when she got older, even without factoring in the imminent addition to the Fleury family. 

It didn’t surprise Patric that in his conversations with Marc both on and off ice, he spent a lot of time telling him about Malin and Isabella. Marc also frequently talked about Vero and Estelle, which was only natural.

What was surprising was how much Patric told Marc about _himself,_ so quickly after they had gotten to know one another. He had suddenly become an open book in spite of himself. Being extroverted was one thing, but rushing in like this was something else entirely, something he never did. It was almost like he was trying to sell himself; as if it were vitally important that all of his cards were on the table. 

Fortunately, Marc didn’t seem to mind, even though Patric’s information dump lasted through a good part of training camp. Instead, he responded with what was most likely oversharing of his own. 

Even though Sid and Geno hadn’t been able to participate in training camp beyond introductions, they were still a major presence. Fortunately, things had worked out, and they’d be back in time for the season opener. Maybe Patric needed to start thinking positively for a change.

Maybe, just maybe, getting traded would work out after all.

***

“Nervous?” was the gentle inquiry from Marc as Patric finished lacing up his skates.

“A little,” Patric admitted as he looked up. It was blatantly obvious that there were some butterflies. He never fidgeted this much, and one would have to be a complete idiot not to notice. But this was it, his first game as a Penguin, and the only thing running through his mind was today’s mantra: _Don’t fuck this up._

“I can understand that,” came the similarly gentle reply, compounded with a reassuring hand on the back of Patric’s shoulder that stirred up a whole different set of nerves; ones that made his temperature spike ever so slightly, just enough to disrupt his equilibrium. “You’ll be fine.”

“…Yeah.”

“It’s funny that you and Sid are back together, when you think about it.” Marc’s hand remained on the other man’s shoulder as he sat down on the bench next to him. “It must be fate.” 

The curve in Patric’s spine immediately straightened as he jolted up into a fully seated position. “Sid told me you’d say that.”

“Really? I guess I’m just predictable.” The hand left Patric’s shoulder and retreated to Marc’s lap. “I’m not a big believer in destiny, but some things are just meant to be, you know?”

Patric nodded before seeing Coach Johnston enter the locker room out of the corner of his eye.

“Good luck.” There were two quick pats to Patric’s back before the locker room fell silent.

***

It wasn’t necessarily being on a new team that made Patric so apprehensive before that first game. What worried him was how well he would (or wouldn’t) be received by the home crowd. Pens fans could be dicks at times, and if they didn’t like a player or something he did, they sure as hell made their feelings known. 

The feeling that welled up within Patric as his name was called and he skated out of the tunnel to the sound of thunderous cheers on par with the booming music wasn’t just nervous excitement—it was relief. For at least the time being, any past transgressions of his, real or imagined, had been forgiven. He wasn’t a visiting player or the new guy. He was a _Penguin._

He didn’t perform as well as he would have liked during the home opener, but a win was a win, and it was one hell of a win at that. The cellys both on and off the ice didn’t feel any less exhilarating then they did during any of his previous games. In a way, they felt more so, because now he knew that in the eyes of both the fans and his team, he _belonged._

It wasn’t until the game against the Stars that he finally scored his first goal as a Penguin, but it immediately became one of the best damn goals he had ever scored. Marc and the others hadn’t doubted him any, but he still felt vindicated now that he had met the bar he had set for himself at the beginning of the season.

He was flying high, a meteorite darting across the sky in a blaze of glory. Never in his wildest dreams had he imagined things would go this well. 

But meteorites eventually fall to Earth, and nothing could have prepared him for the impact.

***

“Thyroid cancer.” Patric mindlessly repeated the words as he cradled his head between his hands, elbows propped up on the dining room table.

“The doctors expect a full recovery,” Malin reminded him between forkfuls of her teriyaki-glazed salmon. “They caught it early and it’s a very treatable form of cancer. It could have been worse.”

“I know, but…” Patric’s face slid down the palms of his hands as he stared blankly at his barely-touched dinner. “He’s so young.”

“I understand how you feel. I was shocked too. Nobody wants this to happen to anyone.” Malin put down her fork and gazed intently at her husband in an attempt to look as reassuring as possible. “But you need to trust the doctors, and in the meantime, just keep doing what you’re doing. Like _mormor_ always said, sometimes you have to let go and let God.”

“…Right.” Patric clenched his fist around his fork, then stabbed the items on his plate several times, attempting to summon some semblance of an appetite. “It’s just…I don’t know.” He then forced down a forkful of asparagus, hoping to dispel the haze of concern that had crossed Malin’s face.

“I know you’re upset, and it’s natural. But please try to eat, okay?” Malin reached for her fork, but stopped when she saw the sudden distress on Isabella’s face. “You keep going. We’ll be back.” Malin jumped out of her chair and picked up Isabella as quickly as she could, then scrambled out of the dining room. She made it halfway up the stairs before Isabella started screaming her head off.

Patric couldn’t help but chuckle. If Malin’s insistence that he finish his dinner got him out of diaper duty, maybe he could eat a little more slowly tonight.

***

Malin probably thought he didn’t notice, but Patric saw her eyeing that sapphire necklace in the Goldstock’s window the last time they had been downtown. It had been far too long since he had bought her a gift. Maybe it would cheer him up as well. 

They really outdid themselves the way they wrapped up the box, too. Patric couldn’t help but feel a giddy sense of accomplishment as he headed out the door. Malin was going to be thrilled. 

He was so busy planning the surprise that he wasn’t watching where he was going, and ended up crashing into the other figure in the doorway.

“OW! Hey, watch—oh, hey, Horny.” Marc’s expression changed when he recognized Patric. “What are you doing here?” 

“I should be asking you the same question.” He held up the wrapped box in his hand. “Bought the necklace Malin’s been wanting. You?”

“I had to get the diamond reset in Vero’s engagement ring. I guess maybe Estelle was playing a little too hard or something. I’m just glad we were able to find it again.”

By now, they were both walking back towards the street, ignoring the fact that either one of them might crash into someone or something during the course of their conversation. “How in the hell did you find it again after it fell out of the ring?”

“I didn’t. Vero didn’t let anyone move until she did. She was down on her hands and knees digging through the carpets for half an hour. I never thought she’d actually find it, but she was determined.”

Patric chuckled, able to picture the scene perfectly. “So _she_ found it, not _we.”_

“…Yeah, pretty much.” They reached Marc’s car, which had an orange envelope tucked under the wiper blades. “Motherfucker.”

“Hey, if you see them, maybe you should tell the meter maids who you are,” Patric suggested. “Maybe they’ll give you a break.”

“If they find out who I am, they’ll double it.” Marc grimaced as he placed the ticket in his coat pocket. “See you at practice.”

Patric frowned. While it was true Marc was frequently the target of fan abuse, he ignored the media, and did his best to filter out the worst of the criticism. However, one could only weather the storm for so long before the constant deluge of derision began to get to them. Patric wished the guy would quit being so down on himself like that.

Someday, he’d get him to believe that he was so much better than he thought.


	3. Shelter from the Storm

_Duper’s in the hospital._

Patric’s blood ran cold as he read the rest of the message from Tanger, with his eyes zeroing in on the words _blood clot_ and _lung._ The smartphone slid out of Patric’s now-limp hand and clattered onto the table.

Malin turned her head towards the source of the noise, then put down the spoon she had been holding for Isabella when she saw Patric lose all color in his face. _“Älskling?”_

Patric was catatonic now, his eyes unfocused and mouth hanging wide open.

“What’s wrong?” Malin’s voice was gentle, yet insistent with worry.

Patric forced the words out. “Duper has a blood clot in his lung.”

“Oh, _älskling.”_ Malin rushed over and moved to wrap her arms around her husband, but stopped when he pushed her away with one hand. 

“Leave me alone.” Patric leapt out of his chair and bolted upstairs, leaving his breakfast unfinished.

***

If it wasn’t one thing, it was something else.

On top of the sudden inability to keep any winning streaks going, the fact that the losses were beginning to outnumber the wins, or that several teammates were now at one another’s throats, suddenly there was a mumps outbreak, because at this point, _why the fuck not._

Patric had been more terrified for Isabella than anything else, as she was still too young for any of the mumps vaccines. Just to make him even worse of a person, there was that team trip to Children’s Hospital in the meantime. 

Malin had been the voice of sanity when Patric began throwing his things into a suitcase and planning to isolate himself in a hotel room somewhere until further notice, even after getting the booster shots. She pointed out that if he were to spread the mumps to either her or Isabella, the damage would have already been done. When he continued to remain asymptomatic, the sense of relief that washed over him was far stronger than the vortex of an ocean whirlpool.

Malin and Isabella were a beacon of light in the darkness that now engulfed Patric as he despaired that his earlier fears about the trade had been well-founded. Oftentimes, he found himself lying in a heap on the bed or the couch, a pathetic excuse for a man, as his head lay in Malin’s lap. 

At least Isabella was too young to notice that her father was clinging to the edge of despair, trying not to fall into the yawning chasm of melancholy below. Now that she was starting to walk, he didn’t have time to feel sorry for himself if Malin wasn’t around. Also, they would probably need to install baby locks on the cabinet doors. And why _did_ Malin keep the flour and sugar in the bottom cupboard, anyway? Maybe someday Isabella would become an interior decorator—hopefully using far more appropriate mediums.

While Patric still harbored a sense of dread about his team and his role within it, he eventually came to realize that he had found a safe harbor in the typhoon raging at CONSOL.

Or, perhaps more appropriately, a flower blossoming in the barren, frozen tundra around them.

Patric was bound and determined to make Marc see his worth, so when the next game after their meeting at Goldstock’s ended, he presented him with the game puck.

Then he began doing it over and over. It wasn’t quite clear from that point on why he did it. True, he wanted to make the guy feel better about himself, but it became a ritual. It now felt like a grievous sin if he let a major accomplishment go unheralded, one that would condemn him to the lowest circle of hell.

Seeing Marc’s smile made it all worthwhile. The radiance whenever he beamed made it feel that even for only a few all-too-brief moments, all was right with the world.

The smiles were always coupled with some sort of physical contact; whether it be a hug, a nudge, a hand on the shoulder, or whatever the always-expressive Marc came up with that day. Patric couldn’t say he didn’t like the attention. It was almost as if he fed off it.

Patric had always been incredibly touchy-feely. Early in their relationship, Malin had started referring to him as “my cuddle bug.” Even when taking that into consideration, the frequency with which he touched Marc could still be considered excessive.

It wasn’t as if Marc was discouraging him any. On the contrary, he was initiating much of the contact. Oftentimes, Marc would lean in or raise his arms for varying degrees of a hug, which was always followed by what, if it were anyone else doing so, Patric might have possibly considered an encroachment of personal space, even with his lack of boundaries. 

But when it was Marc’s body pressed against his, all limits, few as they were, slid away, weak as melting snow. Only Marc could keep him from wincing at the sudden impact of the occasional helmet-to-helmet bump, or get away with skating right into him for absolutely no reason.

Then again, Patric had brought that last one on himself the day he decided to start teasing him. It started out innocently enough, with both of them screwing around during warmups. Marc had finally perfected his trick of throwing a puck into the air and knocking it away with his stick mid-air, and was now at the point where he was just showing off.

Patric, who was feeling particularly impish that day, pretended to find the trick unimpressive and impulsively skated into the guy. This prompted a playful jab in response, which Patric returned, leading to additional jabbing between the two of them.

The jabs evolved into nuzzles. Nuzzles subsequently evolved into a half-embrace. When that ended, and Patric began skating away, Marc took the opportunity to skate into him from behind while his guard was down. Of course Marc had to get the last laugh.

What Patric did not expect, however, was that the cuddling and nuzzles began happening over and over.

Sometimes they’d both raise their arms and go in for a hug. Other times, Patric would be in one of his mischievous moods and just start being a dick, as he did on the day when he knocked Marc’s stick away before the man could get a hand on it. Such teasing always earned either gentle shoves or retaliatory stick taps—sometimes even both.

Marc could be a real punk in return, but there was something adorable about it. It gave Patric the same sense of accomplishment he had initially received from presenting game pucks to him. Maybe that’s why the interactions became a part of their warmups. 

Or maybe he just needed a routine.

Which was what he always tried to convince himself whenever he started pondering the tangled web of emotions that were beginning to take root in his subconscious.

***

It wasn’t enough to just present Marc with game pucks. Now Patric was at the point where he was actually dedicating goals to him, complete with the open hand gestures afterwards. 

Downie was right. Patric had absolutely no chill. 

But why would he start now? Why would he give up the high-fives, the euphoric hugs, or tight nuzzles, when even between protective visors, their faces were close, so very close? Even on the ice, when both teams were milling around them and fans were hollering at the top of their lungs, those somehow managed to be the most intimate moments either of them could share.

Patric clutched the game puck in his left hand as he shuffled over to the goal line, forcing himself to ignore the pain shooting through his left leg. With the team’s luck that season, and consequently his own, he had most likely reinjured himself in the second. He hadn’t felt quite right after scrambling out of that 2 on 1, and had hoped that popping sound he’d heard was just his imagination.

But when Marc raised his glove to accept the gift, Patric knew that the additional hours of physical therapy that would follow from him not resting the leg after the final buzzer were well worth it.

Especially since Marc’s smile was far more potent than any analgesic. 

And in those fleeting moments when Marc’s hand rested on the small of his back, Patric no longer needed to use the sore leg, for his spirit had acquired the ability to soar to the heavens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References for the warmup ~~flirting~~ rituals courtesy of [ these GIFs](http://sarucasm.tumblr.com/tagged/pfgc) by [sarucasm.](http://sarucasm.tumblr.com/)
> 
> Also, [ this picture ](http://sarucasm.tumblr.com/post/100083335366) gives me life.


	4. Dead of Winter

It was always something. This time, Patric was once again spinning his wheels in physical therapy after having reinjured his left hamstring while everyone else was out there busting their asses. 

Not him. He was just useless. He was dead weight that the captain could throw overboard in favor of a more capable crew member. By this point, Rutherford might as well slap a “FOR SALE” sign on him and just throw him in the storefront window, seeing as he was damaged goods on the sidelines.

It was bad enough that he couldn’t skate during practice. But now he couldn’t even chase Isabella around the house. 

Sure, he could still sit on the floor with her and her toys, read to her, or simply hold her, which she seemed to like best just before bed. But Isabella was at that age where she wanted to run around outside. She wanted to pick up rocks, pet the neighbor’s dog, get dirt stains in her clothes, and attempt to eat the leaves on the bushes along the front walkway.

Whenever Patric had to tell her “No honey, Daddy can’t now,” it was another twist of the knife in his chest.

Malin knew her husband was suffering and tried to distract him. Suddenly, they were having steak for dinner a lot more frequently, and Patric’s favorite cheat day foods kept appearing in the pantry. One night when Malin was feeling frisky, she had Patric lie on his back and did all the work herself. While he definitely enjoyed the view, he felt impotent when he was only able to use his hands, even if he was right where she wanted him. 

But Malin didn’t seem to mind. On the contrary, she seemed to get off on it, and they’d need to experiment a bit more once Patric was fully recovered. 

The injury prompted Patric to observe his surroundings more than normal, both on and off the ice. He and Malin had frequently discussed their vocations since they had gotten serious, so he now knew how to spot and observe lines created by someone’s posture.

While Patric was confined to the sidelines, he couldn’t help but notice the perfect lines Marc created as he moved on the ice. His movements were effortless; executed without a second thought.

Everything about the man was perfect; whether it was his game, his balletic movements, his interactions with his teammates and his family, that glorious smile, or how that alabaster skin elegantly contrasted with his ebony hair.

It wasn’t just perfection. Marc ascended to sanctity whenever he beamed at Patric, or whenever they made physical contact, which happened more and more frequently now, even on days when Patric wasn’t authorized for a precursory skate to gauge his recovery.

The physical contact was so frequent now that it was a miracle that Patric’s heart didn’t explode inside of his chest. If he wasn’t touching Marc, it was the other way around. 

While Marc was the eye in the hurricane of the Penguins’ 2014 season, reality frequently made itself known. When Geno and Adams got into a fight during practice, Patric’s first reaction was to surmise what Adams might have said or done to deserve it.

When Patric had first joined the team, Adams seemed like an okay guy. But as time marched on, his true colors emerged, and Patric _really_ couldn’t stand that motherfucker.

If he absolutely had to abide Adams, Patric would just politely ignore him and focus on his other teammates. It didn’t help his convoluted feelings that no matter who he turned his focus to, it would always veer back to Marc. 

The lines of his body on the ice. The grace with which the man performed. The way he lit up around Patric. The radiant smile. The eyes. The hair. Everything.

It all converged to send Patric’s heart racing, and his mind to forbidden realms.

They hadn’t always been forbidden. Malin was fully aware of his inclinations. Before Malin, there had been Matthias.

Meeting Matthias had been a complete fluke. They had first set eyes on one another in a Stockholm nightclub, and the attraction was instantaneous and visceral.

Matthias had been the very personification of Adonis, with a personality and libido to match. The sex had been phenomenal, beyond anything Patric had even believed to be humanly possible.

But when the wildfires of infatuation had burned away the wick until there was nothing left, they both discovered that not only were they polar opposites, but they really couldn’t stand one another.

After kicking Matthias out of his apartment, Patric was left licking his wounds, sadder and wiser after such an intense inferno of lust, emotion, and subsequent heartbreak.

He had vowed never to rush in headfirst again—which was precisely what he was afraid he was doing now.

When he and Malin became serious, they discussed their previous loves and flames, vowing that there would be absolutely no secrets between them. Because of that, Malin knew fully well that Patric also had an eye for men.

She didn’t seem to mind that, but she would most likely mind the thoughts that rushed through her husband’s mind at the speed of light. 

Patric didn’t know what Malin would make of the fantasies that danced through his brain as he watched Marc’s lines at their most recent practice, when he found himself needing to look away.

He didn’t need to put any more thought into the lines that Marc’s legs created when he hunched over in concentration, because then his mind would wander, and he would once again picture those legs up over his shoulders while those russet eyes pierced his soul as he begged, pleaded for more. 

Patric didn’t even need to be at practice anymore to begin wondering how Marc tasted, or to ponder whether he was quiet or loud. 

Whenever Patric’s mind began to wander in that direction, he would invoke the memory of Matthias as a reminder to think with the proper head. Unfortunately, due to this, he found himself remembering Matthias more and more as the months passed.

Somehow, this seemed different. But Patric didn’t need to make the same mistake again. Especially not with a devoted wife and a darling daughter; both for which he’d blow his brains out first before sacrificing to his baser instincts.

Patric reminded himself of these irrefutable facts whenever he found himself longing to possess Marc, to _know_ him, body and soul; to show him just how incredible he truly was. Words alone could not describe his true value, for Marc was worth far more than diamonds or emeralds. 

Yet Marc was to remain inside the jeweler’s display case, a treasure that could not be obtained, for the ties and obligations of marriage, and Patric’s love for Malin, kept them both sealed away from one another.

Patric was destined to remain outside of the case, peering in, longing for what could never be.

***

Isabella likely didn’t quite realize what was happening whenever either Malin or Patric pushed the sled down the hill, but she seemed to enjoy it nonetheless.

With Pittsburgh being Pittsburgh, they didn’t have to go far to find a park with decent hills, but they still had to leave their backyard, which was flat. Even so, it gave the family an excuse to head outside on an off day.

When Patric finished dragging the sled back up the hill, he soon realized they weren’t alone. Malin and Vero were chatting at the hill’s summit. 

“Hey there.” 

Patric turned towards the voice behind him to see the previously missing member of the Fleury family. “Hey. Why do you like sneaking up on me?”

“Dunno,” Marc replied with a shrug. “It’s fun. Funny how we keep bumping into each other though. It must be fate.” 

They _did_ have an uncanny tendency to be in the same place at the same time during their off days recently, alone or no. “I swear, I’m not stalking you or anything.”

“Yeah, but I figured you might be here. That’s why I came.”

The sudden surge of adrenaline banished the chill of the frosty air against Patric’s skin. “…Really?”

“When you said you were taking Isabella out sledding, I realized I’d never taken Estelle before, so I thought if I could figure out where you were going, maybe that would be a good place.”

“Oh. Huh. Okay then.” Patric bit his lower lip in penance, scolding himself for allowing ridiculous fantasies to enter his mind. “They’ve never been sledding? Seriously?”

“Even if I’d thought of it, I don’t think Vero would have let me. But Estelle’s older now. So…” Marc patted Estelle on the back before beaming at Patric. “She’s been looking forward to this. Would you say this is the best spot, or would you recommend going elsewhere?”

“Uh…” Patric paused for a moment, forcing himself to dismiss the thought of having seen a certain gleam in those russet eyes, the ones that always seemed to see right through to him. “There are steeper ones, but that’s for when Isabella’s older.” The steeper ones always tempted Patric to attempt them alongside Isabella, but he didn’t need to get hurt again, terrorize Isabella in the process, or invoke Malin’s wrath doing either. 

“Got it. Though you know what I wouldn’t mind doing? If I could get—”

“Don’t even think about it.” Somewhere along the line, Vero had also acquired her husband’s ability of subterfuge, as she had been standing just outside Patric’s line of vision until he turned his head at the sound of her voice.

“I didn’t even finish,” Marc protested weakly as Vero put her hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. Not only was it a way of keeping her husband in line, but the gesture somehow also seemed to indicate ownership. It was another sign from the universe, reality’s way of telling Patric: _Step back. Keep away. He is not for you._

“You boys having fun without us?” Malin asked as she made her way over to the group. 

“No, we were waiting for you,” Patric replied. “Now that you’re both here, the party can start.”

Judging by the wide grin that spread across Malin’s face, this had been the correct answer. Malin then bent over and focused her attention on Isabella. “Now it’s Mommy’s turn.” With that, she gave Isabella a push, sending the sled careening back down the hill.

Malin turned her head and smiled at Patric before running down to retrieve her daughter and the sled. Patric knew she didn’t mean anything by that, but he decided to take it as a gesture of ownership anyway.

After all, he certainly could use the reminder.


	5. Don't Speak

It was unclear if it had just been dumb luck or the work of a benevolent deity, but somehow, the Penguins actually managed to make the playoffs. 

Either way, the stars aligned, and they managed to squeak in by winning the very last game of the season. The surprise development shook Patric out of his depression, and he once again became the voice of encouragement in the locker room as he once again believed that maybe things just might work out after all.

Everything started out well enough. Losing Game 1 wasn’t all that discouraging, since they still had the whole series ahead of them. Although it was really Sid who won Game 2 for them, the rallying cry was loud and clear. Everyone was reinvigorated, believing in themselves once more. 

But after they lost both Games 3 and 4, despair crept back into Patric’s mind, and he no longer bothered to attempt to encourage anybody, as it was now clear that his fears about the trade had been very sound. He could only handle being the team Pollyanna for so long.

***

The puck careened into the net right past Marc, who reacted about two seconds too late.

Patric’s heart sank as he watched Marc collapse to his knees, devastated. The crowd noise and blurs of motion nearby melted away as Patric’s gaze remained transfixed on the broken shell who remained motionless in front of the net.

The loss didn’t matter. Neither did the fact that their season was over. Patric’s concern was for Marc, who would be heading straight into a viper’s nest of fan and media vitriol once they crossed the Allegheny County line on the bus ride back to Pittsburgh. 

Never in a million years would Patric have been able to play the goalie position. No matter how high a goalie’s save percentage was, people only ever remembered the missed saves. If Patric fucked up at any given point, the blame could possibly be directed towards the entire line, not just him. But if a goalie fucked up, even once, the blame was his and his alone. 

A goalie was a team’s fortress, their last line of defense. He could block 100 shots total, but if the 101st ended up being the game winner, everyone lost their goddamned minds.

Patric briefly contemplated going to check on Marc, but abandoned the idea when Sid beat him to it. He could wait until everything wrapped up. 

The 20-minute bus ride back to the hotel felt more like 20 hours. Marc was all the way in the back with Sid, and Patric wasn’t about to creep either of them out by rubbernecking. Instead, he was left to worry as he shifted his attention from one thing to another, whether it was the sullen faces of his silent teammates, the streets of New York whizzing by, or the concerned text from Malin that he was in the process of answering.

 _I’ll be all right,_ he reassured her. _It’s some of the other guys I’m more worried about._

Once they were back at the hotel, Sid rushed off to go check on some of the more despondent guys. Patric ignored the others and sidestepped the scrum as he darted through hallways searching for Marc, his efforts becoming increasingly frantic the longer he was unsuccessful.

Finally, he spotted him out of the corner of his eye. Like Patric, Marc had taken the long route to avoid everyone else. Judging from the specific set of elevators Marc was walking towards, he was most likely going back to his room.

Patric stayed a few paces behind and waited for the elevator doors to close before heading over and pressing the button. Once he reached the upper floors, he continued to remain a short distance back when he spotted Marc, who soon reached his room and disappeared through the door.

After waiting for what he determined was an adequate amount of time not to seem overbearing or creepy, Patric headed over and knocked on the door.

There were a few moments of silence which caused Patric to ask himself whether he was being pushy. After all, Marc was most likely either in the bathroom or just not wanting to answer. And why would he, after—

The door opened a crack, just enough for Marc to peek through. “…Horny?”

“Can I come in?”

Marc pushed open the door and stepped away, allowing Patric to come in and close the door behind him. When Patric turned around, Marc was already slumped over on the bed, defeated.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Patric strode over to the bed and sat down next to him. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Bullshit.” Marc buried his face in his hands. “I let that last goal through.”

“I don’t think this was gonna be our year anyway.”

“And when we get back into town, it’ll be the same damn—”

Patric spoke firmly now, coming dangerously close to raising his voice. “We weren’t gonna win anyway. It was probably fate.”

Marc shot back up and recoiled in shock as he turned to face Patric, silent as his chestnut eyes sparkled with bewilderment.

“Think about it.” Patric returned to his normal tone. “We were too injured. How well do you think we would have done in the second round when we were already down six guys? Or the third, if we even made it that far? Even if any of them came back, who’s to say they wouldn’t have gotten hurt again? Or anyone else, for that matter?”

“I just…” Marc titled his head slightly as he tried to collect his thoughts. “It’s just, I let everyone down again, and I’m afraid it’ll keep happening, and I’m—”

“You _are_ good enough.” Patric extended his left arm and wrapped it around Marc. “You’re one of the best in the league, and I’ll beat the shit out of anyone who says otherwise. That goes for you, too.”

“Uh…thanks?” Marc took a deep breath before allowing himself to collapse fully forward, and would likely have fallen off the bed had Patric not caught him quickly enough. 

Marc began shuddering ever so slightly as Patric lifted him back up onto the bed and pulled him halfway into his lap and against his chest.

“I…” Marc clenched his teeth and his eyes shut as he unsuccessfully fought back tears.

“Shhh.” Patric tightened his left arm around Marc as he gently ran his fingertips through the ebony hair in front of him. “It’s okay.”

Although the emotions were present, there were very few tears. It seemed as if Marc’s body was now denying him relief. Even as Marc clenched a fist in the material of Patric’s shirt and squished his face against Patric’s chest, the shuddering and sharp breathing failed to produce much of anything.

Patric leisurely continued to run his fingers through Marc’s hair as he watched him with concern, tightening his other arm as he finally felt his shirt become slightly damp. He felt Marc’s free arm pulling at his waist, and the pressure against his chest became more insistent as Marc’s breathing slowed.

Somehow, this came easily to him. Commiserating with teammates past and present had been one thing, but this was different. For one, having anyone else in his lap would just be downright weird.

Yet it was nothing to hug and cuddle Marc, stroke his hair, or gently whisper comforting things in Swedish, even though there was no chance of them ever being understood. 

Even as Marc grew still, Patric continued stroking his hair, figuring that he might have finally calmed down.

Then he heard snoring. 

This was a problem. Even if Patric could extradite himself from Marc’s grip without waking him up, that fist was not unclenching without startling him awake.

It was a no-win situation. He could either wake up Marc, leave, and look like a complete asshole, or stay until Tishy came back. And if Tishy saw them like that, well… 

The decision was made for Patric when he heard the door open.

In came Tishy, whose face registered shock before his brain short-circuited and entrenched him in the stage of denial. Tishy’s subsequent expression looked less like someone in total astonishment and more like someone who had just stuck a metal fork into an electrical outlet. 

“It’s not what it looks like!” Patric hollered instantly, to which Tishy dropped his jaw in response.

Shit. That had been the _really_ wrong thing to say.

“It isn’t,” Patric insisted as his eyes darted nervously around the room, desperately searching for anything else to focus on besides the gobsmacked goalie standing right by the bathroom. “I came in to check on him, and he cried himself to sleep on me. That’s it.”

Several seconds of silence felt more like several years as Tishy regarded the scene in front of him.

“Uh…” Patric tried to pull himself away, towards the middle of the bed, but this only caused Marc to slump further into his chest. “Bit of help here?” 

Tishy grunted in what sounded like exasperation before ambling over to the bed. “So, are you now giving out free goalie rides, or is that just for Flower?”

If anyone besides Tishy started chirping him for this later, hopefully there was an extremely treacherous mountain cave somewhere in the Alps where Patric could hide for the next three seasons. He wasn’t even capable of a decent clapback at this point.

“Hey. Come on.” Tishy grabbed Marc’s shoulders and shook him hard enough to make the bed wobble. “Get up.” Unsatisfied with the confused groan in response, Tishy shook Marc again before lifting his leg and gently pressing a knee into his back.

Marc lifted his head and mumbled something in Quebecois before blinking his eyes a few times, trying to get reaccustomed to the light in the room. “…Huh?”

“You back with us now?” Tishy asked.

Marc turned his head towards Tishy, then back to Patric, before recoiling in shock as his eyes widened.

“You fell asleep,” Patric explained.

“Oh. Shit. Okay.” Marc looked down at his hand before releasing Patric’s shirt, then looked back up at him questioningly.

“I think your roommate wants to get some sleep.”

“…Right. Sorry.” Marc removed his other hand from Patric’s waist before pushing himself into a standing position and staggering over to the bathroom before slowly pulling the door shut.

“Thanks. See you tomorrow.” Patric got up to leave and was halfway out the doorway before turning to face Tishy. “Keep an eye on him, okay?”

“Yeah, sure. Later.”

The tableside lamp was still on, but Tanger was already in bed with his tablet by the time Patric returned to his room. 

Tanger looked up when he heard the door close. “The fuck you been?” 

“With Flower.” Patric rummaged through his suitcase in search of his flannel sleep pants.

“He doing okay?”

“He’ll be fine.” Tanger didn’t appear to be in any mood to stay up much longer, so once Patric had changed, he climbed into the unoccupied bed and turned off the lamp. Tanger locked the tablet before setting it on the nightstand and turning over in bed.

Patric lay on his back for a few minutes, thinking about everything that had occurred after the game. Maybe he could somehow coerce Tishy into silence.

But Marc had not only been in his lap, he seemed to welcome it.

True, the guy was horribly downtrodden at that point. Even so, Patric couldn’t help but realize that was the closest he’d ever been to a teammate, both physically and emotionally. Hugging was one thing, but cuddling and lap-sitting (or partial lap-sitting) where a whole different wavelength.

Then Tishy had to walk in and ruin everything. 

“Free goalie rides,” Tishy had said. Patric could have told him: “Only if they’re Cup winners. Guess that excludes you.”

 _“Goddammit!”_ Patric shrieked as he instantly sat straight up in bed. “That’s what I should have said!”

“Go the fuck to sleep,” was the irritated response from the other bed.

***

If the hockey gods hadn’t chosen the Penguins that year, at least they kept Tishy quiet about the whole incident.

Marc’s mood seemed to improve after the trip was over, and everyone was saying their final goodbyes before going home for the offseason. The Fleurys weren’t leaving for another couple of days, but Patric, Malin, and Isabella would already be back in Sweden by then.

During the flight back, and in the days prior, Patric could not get those moments in Marc and Tishy’s room off his mind.

He had never told Malin what happened, and he wasn’t about to. She might get the wrong idea—which, at that point, probably wasn’t that far from the truth.

Maybe it was just because he’d been at one of his darkest hours, but Marc wasn’t one to go sitting in anyone’s lap, let alone allow himself to be held like that. Maybe by Sid, but that was a whole different bond between them, albeit a platonic one.

Not only that, but it had all come so easily to Patric. Then again, it wasn’t like he didn’t fantasize about that sort of thing on a regular basis at this point.

It was the strangest thing. One minute he might dream of holding Marc in his arms and kissing him gently; and the next he’d be imagining Marc’s legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him in closer and deeper still.

An offseason in Sweden was the best thing that could happen now. At least then, Patric would have the chance to ease his troubled mind.


	6. Seasons Change

_“When summer arrives in Iceland, we make the most of it. Then, when those five days are over, we spend the rest of the year cherishing the memories we made.”_

Sweden’s weather wasn’t quite _that_ bad, but perhaps the ephemera of the summers there were what made them so much fun. There was something to be said for extended periods of daylight and not having to wear several layers of clothing at once. 

Once they landed in Sweden, the Hornqvists got right to making up for lost time. Malin finally threw the first birthday party for Isabella she’d been dying to have now that both families were close by. There were additional visits to friends and family they never got to see during the season. They also got started on everything they had talked about earlier in the year, but never got a chance to begin due to lack of time. At least now they had a replacement for the daybed in the guestroom that they both hated, but had each only tolerated because they thought that the other liked it. 

Most of all, they were able to just relax and have fun.

It was so much easier to spend time with Malin and Isabella without a schedule to adhere to that sometimes, Patric almost forgot to keep track of the guys.

Almost.

There were always pictures and tweets, but everything seemed as if it were occurring in a parallel universe. Right after the season had ended, Patric had been looking forward to returning home and relaxing with the family, just the three of them. But now, he felt isolated, like he was standing outside peering through the window because he had been locked out of the house. 

At least there wasn’t too much time between seeing everyone, because the offseason meant wedding season, and everyone and his brother had decided to get married that year. Although logistics and timing meant he wasn’t able to attend all of them, he and Malin always made sure to send a gift. 

While Patric and Malin continued to keep up with everybody with everything else they had going on, it was a little harder to keep track of the Fleurys, since Marc didn’t do the social media thing and Vero’s posts tended to be sporadic during the summer, since they, too, were enjoying the ephemeral weather in their neck of the woods. 

Marc would send an email once a week, and it usually consisted of the same topics: whatever they did that week, the girls' latest milestones, and random observations and thoughts. For his part, Patric tended to discuss the same things. Isabella was walking pretty well now, and she was starting to say a few simple words in English and Swedish, although anything else she said was pretty much just babbling at this point. 

They didn’t send email as often as Patric would have liked, but at least the topics and the distance were safe. This made it much easier to purge inappropriate thoughts and feelings from his mind, even though they did continue to creep in from time to time.

The most recent daydream dissipated as a sudden knocking at the front door jolted Patric back to reality, and he found himself on the living room couch with Isabella on the floor a few feet in front of him, contentedly playing with her blocks.

As Malin rushed to answer the door, he briefly pondered where his fantasy had left off, with him tracing one hand around Marc’s waist as he kissed him deeply, while the other hand slowly crept up his shirt. He expunged the memory for good when he heard a brief conversation at the front door.

_“Gubben!”_ Malin called down the hallway. “Haggy’s here!”

This was a pleasant surprise. While Patric and Carl Hagelin were very close friends, they hadn’t spoken in the last couple of weeks, nor had there been any recent visits due to the playoffs. Judging by the look on Hags’ face when Patric saw him at the front door, there was something else bothering him besides losing the Eastern Conference Final.

“Hey.” Hags not only looked down, he sounded it. “Can we talk, or are you busy?”

“Busy? No.” Patric shook his head. “Come in.” 

Hags followed Patric back to the living room, where Isabella had now made her way to the toy chest, where she would pull out one toy, look at it for a few seconds, throw it on the floor, and repeat the process over and over. 

“What’s up?” Patric asked as he and Hags both sat down. “Something bothering you? You don’t sound too good.”

Hags moved his head up and down a few times, alternating his gaze between Patric and the hands clasped in his lap before taking a deep breath and focusing on Patric with heavily-lidded eyes. “I got traded to the Ducks.”

“…Oh.” Patric hadn’t heard, but he’d been making it a point to avoid NHL news in recent days at Malin’s request. 

“Yeah.” Hags sighed heavily and looked back down, clenching and clasping his interlaced fingers over and over. “I don’t know anyone out there, and…”

“I know what that’s like,” Patric said with a sympathetic nod.

“Yeah. That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

No wonder Hags decided to come over. He looked and sounded just like Patric had the previous year, right down to the exact same worries over fitting in and anxieties over why he was traded. Hags did seem to have it worse, though. While Patric had several friends he’d left behind in Nashville, his bond with them wasn’t anywhere near as strong as the one Hags shared with Zucc and Brass.

Sometimes Patric wondered just _how_ close Hags and Zucc were, but Malin always scolded him whenever he brought it up, telling him it was none of his business. 

Whatever the case, Hags’ anxiety was far too familiar, and while everything had worked out in the end for Patric (to an extent), there was no telling what the future held for Hags. At that time, what Hags really needed was someone who would just listen.

Which was exactly what Patric did, sometimes nodding in agreement, other times watching Malin out of the corner of his eye as she would walk through the room with overflowing laundry baskets. Haggy just kept on talking, even when Patric would occasionally glance over to check on Isabella, who by now would put things in her mouth for a little while before discarding them onto the floor and moving on. Her half of the room now looked like something had exploded. 

“I just…” Hags took a deep breath and paused as he stretched and splayed his fingers nervously. “I don’t know what’s gonna happen, and that’s what freaks me out.”

“I know. Believe me, I know.” 

“But…you seem to be doing okay in Pittsburgh now. Was it hard getting to know everyone?”

“Just Adams, but he’s a prick.” Patric suddenly remembered the practice fight during January and wished it had been him and not Geno who had beaten the shit out of Adams. “Everyone else is cool, though. We just clicked. If someone pranks you, they like you.” 

“Even Tanger?” 

“Well, he didn’t like me so much after the pickle juice, but…” Patric doubled over in laughter at the mental image he’d stored away of Tanger’s epic spit-take after Tanger had found out the hard way that Patric had emptied the contents of his water bottle and replaced them with pickle juice when nobody was watching. 

“You son of a bitch.” Judging by Hags’ laughter, he was intimately familiar with the prank as well…hopefully not from the receiving end.

Malin had come back in with a watering can and was now tending to the ferns in the window. Isabella took a few steps before tripping over one of the toys on the floor and falling forward onto her stomach.

“AH, _THIT!”_ Isabella screamed at the top of her lungs.

Patric’s jaw dropped. Malin glared daggers at her husband. Hags tried not to laugh and failed miserably after about two seconds.

Apparently Patric had inadvertently been teaching Isabella a few new words, and it was well past time to begin watching his language at home.

***

Summer never seemed to last that long, but maybe it was because everyone had been so busy doing everything they never got a chance to during the regular season and the playoffs.

As always, Sid held the team barbecue at his place once everyone had returned, and this year, there were several new faces. Most of the other guys had been lost to free agency, which was disappointing, but it was business. There were two changes that invoked strong feelings within Patric. First was the fact that the team hadn’t resigned Adams, _thank the motherfucking hockey gods._ Patric had actually cheered when he read the news on his phone, which earned him a dirty look from Malin when she found out why.

Second was the addition of Phil Kessel. Patric didn’t know much about Phil as a person, but the guy had been through some bad shit in Toronto and even now approached his new teammates with a friendly yet heavily guarded demeanor. It was enough to squelch Patric’s normal compulsion to hug everyone within a five-mile radius whenever he saw them. 

Phil seemed nice enough and had no trouble making conversation, but it was hard to get a good read on him since his shields were still high. There had to be some kind of way to break him out of his shell. Intuitively, Patric already knew Phil was a great guy, both on and off the ice. But more than anything, he just wanted him to _smile._

The problem was getting Phil to open up without inadvertently being a complete dick in the process. Given Phil’s baggage from Toronto, Patric’s normal highly unrestrained approach wouldn’t work. He had to think of something else.

He was pondering the dilemma as he wandered off the patio and inside the house, weaving through scrums of teammates engaged in separate conversations as he headed back to the kitchen, idly wondering whether there was any ox roast left.

All thoughts of food and Phil fell to the wayside when he noticed that Marc had finally made it over, and was talking to Sid over near the foyer. Apparently Marc had been running late.

Marc glanced towards the back door and perked up the moment he and Patric made eye contact. He said something brief to Sid before taking a couple of steps forward and waving.

“Hey, Horny!” Marc shouted over the ambient din of the others. “Long time no see!” Then there was that boyish, megawatt smile, the one that always made Patric’s heart race just a little bit faster.

In the split seconds when they both smiled and began approaching one another, the noise and figures in the space around them faded away, and they were the only people in the room. 

Fissures began splitting the ramparts Patric had constructed in his mind during the summer, spreading across his subconscious like wildfire with each additional step towards Marc.

And the subsequent bear hug was the final strike that brought them all crumbling down.


	7. Déjà vu

Phil Kessel was now Patric’s pet project, a riddle wrapped inside a mystery wrapped inside an enigma. Sooner or later, he’d get the guy to say more than a few words to him at a time. 

The more he read about Phil’s recent history, the more he wanted to head to Toronto and beat the shit out of someone. It was downright criminal how the guy had been pilloried for absolutely no reason, other than the media gossip mill deciding to have a little fun by ruining someone’s life.

There was no telling how long it would take to undo all the hurt and exploitation from the past, or what it would do to finally get a smile on that face.

But goddammit, Patric was sure as hell gonna _try._

They were well into practice now, taking turns attempting to get past Tishy with varying degrees of success. No matter how many times Patric watched him, every time Phil lined up to take a shot, it reminded him of the drawstring of a bow: pulling back, tensing up, and channeling his energy into his core before firing one resounding shot, turning the puck into a heat-seeking missile…

Which ended up in Tishy’s glove.

Phil cursed under his breath and skated away as Patric assumed his own stance, disappearing from the recesses of Patric’s mind for a few moments as Patric watched Tishy intently, looking for some sort of clue whether Tishy would dive right or left.

Any possible clues drowned in the ice shavings Phil rained upon him with a sudden stop on Patric’s other side, which had the added effect of breaking Patric’s focus. 

Patric was still able to brush off the slight annoyance at the distraction, especially when Phil actually initiated a conversation with him.

“Hey.” Phil’s voice was still monotone, serious, devoid of any hints of emotion—perhaps intentionally. 

Patric turned his head towards his teammate, intrigued. “What’s up?”

“Why do you keep talking to me?” Phil’s expression remained stoic, but his eyes betrayed exactly what was going through his mind as he asked his question: confusion, combined with the beginnings of disbelief.

Patric shrugged, baffled that Phil was even asking him this. “Uh…because I like you and I want to get to know you better?”

Phil's eyes grew wider in response, and his face displayed an actual emotion for a change: bewilderment, tempered by skepticism. “You… _like_ me?”

“Well, yeah. Why wouldn’t I? I like everyone.” Maybe a little _too_ much, but it would be a long, long time before Phil was the recipient of any of Patric’s aggressively outgoing hugs. 

“Even damaged goods like me?”

The irritation from a few seconds earlier came surging back fourfold in Patric’s reply. “Okay, we know each other fairly well now, but there’s one rule. Nobody gets to talk shit about you, yourself included. _Especially_ yourself. You are _not_ damaged goods or an infection or whatever the fuck else anyone has ever said about you, and all of that stops _NOW.”_

Phil was now gobsmacked; jaw hanging open as Patric forced himself to calm down before diving headfirst into an angry rant.

“So…” The monotone faded away to nothingness. “You don’t believe I’m any of those things?”

“I don’t just _believe_ it, I _know_ it.” Patric stared right into Phil’s eyes, which shimmered with sudden understanding. “You are a good person, a good player…and hopefully, a good friend.”

_“Friend?”_ Phil repeated incredulously as the bulwarks he’d constructed began to erode; small pebbles tumbling down the castle walls he’d locked himself inside of as a coping mechanism.

“Yeah.” Patric nodded enthusiastically. “I want to be your friend. Is that okay?”

Phil stood rooted in place for a long while, dumbfounded as he pondered the question. 

“HEY!” Johnston’s voice disturbed the silence. “I don’t recall saying you two could take a break! Get back to work!” 

Patric clenched his free hand into a fist to avoid the temptation to flip Johnston off, then went back to preparing for another shot.

“You really want to be friends with me?” The rising and falling tones in Phil’s voice were almost musical now after Patric had only heard the guarded monotone for so long. Patric glanced over at Phil, who by now wore all his emotions on his face: astonishment, awe, and also the faintest glimmer of hope.

“Yeah, I do. Would you like that?”

The tight-lipped smirk on Phil’s face made the tongue-lashing that they’d both receive from Johnston later all worth it. “Yeah. Sure. Let’s be friends.”

***

Patric and Marc’s warmup ritual from the previous season returned with a vengeance. 

There were head taps; shoulder taps; nuzzles; cuddles; back pats; stick-to-body taps, and good-natured chirping, the latter of which hadn’t been present last season.

Marc chirped all the guys when they couldn’t get past him, but his tone was always different when it was Patric. It was amicable, almost affectionate.

Or maybe that was just what Patric wanted to believe. 

Whatever the case, it didn’t just feel like a ritual anymore. Now Patric really _was_ feeding off the energy from it. If he didn’t have that physical contact beforehand, it messed up his equilibrium.

But when he did, he could soar right into the heavens, never stopping to look down even once. 

And he found himself needing it more and more. 

Even off the ice, there was a certain spark between them, something so invigorating that Patric wanted to be around Marc as often as possible. If he wasn’t thinking about Malin, Isabella, or hockey, his mind was on Marc in some way: idle musings, flights of fancy, inappropriate fantasies, or simply wondering whether fate would cross their paths off the ice again, as it tended to do. 

Everything was pretty much the same as it had been last season, right down to the Pens’ middling-to mediocre performance, mediocre stats, steadily decreasing morale, and Duper’s illness, which really fucked up Sid more than anyone else, though he’d never admit it. 

While Patric’s ongoing attempt to rehabilitate Phil remained an important distraction, this season was now looking like a reprise of the last. 

Except there was one major difference.

During the summer, Patric had at least been able to mollify his convoluted feelings for Marc to some degree. But not only had they returned, they were now stronger than before. 

It was bad enough he’d been discarded from one team and picked up by another that couldn’t get its shit together. It was something else entirely to be infatuated with your close friend and teammate.

And there was no coach in the league good enough to help him out of this one.


	8. Changing of the Guard

_“Did it with my woman, ‘cause she couldn’t help me with my mind…”_

_Brother, you ain’t shitting,_ Patric thought to himself as Black Sabbath continued blaring during the remainder of the faceoff. It reflected his recent situation perfectly.

Sometimes his thoughts of Marc were romantic, like whenever he remembered having Marc halfway on his lap and being inches away. It would have been so easy to lean over and kiss his forehead, but thankfully, he refrained. Even so, it didn’t stop him from wondering how that might have played out.

Other times he’d think of everything he wanted to do to Marc, and all the different ways he wanted him—sideways, bent over, sitting up, lying down, on top, on bottom, standing up, in bed, on the couch, against the wall, on the floor, on the ceiling if that were even humanly possible…

In recent weeks, the latter fantasies dominated his psyche, clawing at his already tenuous grasp of sanity. In an attempt to reclaim some semblance of lucidity, he’d been taking out all his frustrations on Malin after Isabella was in bed for the night. By no means was their sex life dull, but he usually wasn’t that aggressive in bed.

Malin absolutely loved it. She hadn’t had multiple orgasms since their honeymoon. Even so, Patric couldn’t help but feel guilty, since it wasn’t her that had gotten him so worked up to begin with.

She apparently could tell something was bothering him, since she always heaped on the praise and encouragement the second that the shadows of guilt entered his mind after the final throes. By this point, she was almost insatiable. Then again, their sex life had pretty much been nonexistent since Isabella started walking, so that might have been a factor.

Perhaps if Patric learned to control his aggression and summon it at will, it would do wonders for both of them. He just had to keep Marc out of his mind.

Though whenever Malin wore that blue babydoll, that wasn’t very hard to do at all.

Patric ran his hands up and down his stick as he shifted on the bench, forcing himself to refocus on the game. The last thing he could see before his vantage point became obscured by a mass of bodies in front of the net was Marc making a save while Benny tried to bail him out.

It became a little easier to see once the refs pushed their way into the middle of the nascent fight. What was now obvious was that Marc was still down.

Then Patric saw the blood.

He remained paralyzed in horror as CONSOL descended into madness around him, from the roar of the disapproving crowd to the panicked murmurings among the rest of the line, which he ignored.

Benny knelt down next to Marc, saying something before Marc got up and lividly swung his arm at him. Had both of them not been wearing their gear, Benny might have gotten decked.

Marc was standing. Good. Patric suddenly remembered to breathe when Marc began heading over to the bench. Now that Marc was nearby, Patric could see the bloody gash below Marc’s eye. He was now able to piece together all of the conversations around him, which all indicated that somehow, Benny’s stick had pierced Marc’s mask. Hopefully it wasn’t serious.

There was no time to worry about Marc now. Once Tishy was in net, Patric’s line was up.

***

“Again!” Isabella ordered between giggles.

Patric couldn’t help but laugh himself at the command before lowering Isabella back down towards the floor and immediately lifting her back up above his head, eliciting a delighted screech.

“Again!”

Malin appeared in the doorway as Patric obliged their daughter one more time. 

“Don’t break her. I’m not making you another one.”

“I’m not breaking her.” Patric pulled Isabella close to his face. “Am I?” he cooed as he nuzzled her.

“I’m surprised you haven’t said anything about the news.”

“News?” Patric turned his head towards Malin, intrigued. He’d been playing with Isabella all morning, so he hadn’t spoken to anyone outside of the house.

“Rutherford fired Johnston and Agnew. There’s a press conference soon.”

 _“WHAT?!”_ Had he not realized it at the last second, Patric would have dropped Isabella. “How do you know?” 

“They broke into Lidia with the announcement. Mike Sullivan’s the new coach. I figured I should tell you.”

“Yeah. …Thanks.” Patric stood dumbfounded for a few moments as Malin went back downstairs before following her to the living room, Isabella in tow.

Malin was already back on the couch, but Patric continued to stand, holding Isabella against his chest as he watched Rutherford silence his cell phone before continuing.

“…I guess what we all point to all the time is the obvious one, the power play.”

Well, no shit. The power play was godawful; a fact that had been weighing heavily on Patric’s mind for quite some time.

“…I believe that he is the guy that can come in and really take control, really make some guys more accountable.” Patric winced at that statement. 

Rutherford’s words began to fade as Patric’s mind kicked into overdrive. He’d certainly heard Sullivan’s name over the past year, but didn’t really know much about the guy. Well, he was about to find out.

There was, however, one other thing that really bothered him. “I wonder how much of this is on me.”

“What are you talking about?” Malin turned towards Patric, confused.

“I mean, I know we weren’t doing all that well, but I haven’t exactly been—”

“Stop that.” The terse, stringent tone immediately put a stop to any verbal self-criticism; which Malin was clearly not about to tolerate. “How can any of you perform with no direction and Johnston screwing up the roster? No wonder you guys couldn’t get anything going.” 

“I…guess?”

“Sit.” Malin’s voice was gentle yet rather insistent; indicating that Patric would be in deep shit if he didn’t do as he was told. He sat down next to Malin, tuning out everything around him as he hung on Rutherford’s every word.

Half of his brain processed the words coming out of Rutherford’s mouth, but the other half continued asking the same question over and over: _Now what?_

***

Patric hadn’t been this nervous since last season’s orientation. Regardless of what Malin insisted, the first practice with a new coach _was_ a really big deal. 

There’d been enough chatter among the guys for two seasons over the past several hours, but that didn’t stop the anxious murmuring as Sullivan entered the locker room.

Instinctively, everyone knew when to shut up. Sullivan hadn’t even been in town for 24 hours, and he already commanded a great deal of respect.

“As you all know by now, I’m Mike Sullivan, and I’m in charge from here on out. Obviously we have a lot to work on, so we’ll be taking this one thing at a time. The first thing I noticed is that your power play is shit.” 

Well, _he_ certainly wasn’t mincing his words. Already there was one major difference between him and Johnston.

“Get the puck, get to the net, and put it where it belongs. No more of this prima donna shit. On the ice. Let’s go.”

Nope. This guy wasn’t fucking around. If there had been any inkling that he was, it shattered with the first series of drills, when all of the losers had to drop down on the ice and give Sullivan ten.

Patric didn’t remember the last time he had skated that hard or that quickly. Then again, motivation to do so was fairly easy when you had someone screaming at you to get your asses up ice to close that gap.

It was also the first time in quite a while that Patric even deigned to use the ice bath. Even though walking made him sore at this point, he couldn’t help but think: _This guy is exactly what we need._

As he staggered into the trainer’s room, Patric soon realized that the ice bath was already occupied. Apparently Marc had also been pushed harder than he was accustomed to, as he hadn’t even bothered to take off all of his Under Armour before getting in the water.

“I’m getting out any—” Marc put his hands on the sides of the tub, then froze when he turned his head and saw Patric. “Gimme a few minutes, okay?”

Patric nodded absentmindedly before Marc pushed himself up into a standing position. The instantaneous rush of every last one of his nerves sparking to life at the sudden action nearly stopped Patric’s heart.

His breath hitched as he caught a glimpse of the top clinging to Marc’s skin, with every muscle outlined perfectly by the soaking wet material.

The fabric was saturated to the point that droplets of water continued dripping off Marc, moving faster and faster down his body as Marc exited the tub and approached Patric. 

Scolding himself wasn’t even an option while Patric’s brain was on the verge of short-circuiting. Even then, he knew he shouldn’t be looking Marc up and down, but he was _right there…_

And as his gaze trailed further downwards to the rest of the Under Armour, Patric also couldn’t help but notice that apparently Marc did not have the shrinkage problem in the ice bath that he often did. 

“P—” Marc cut himself off at the last second. “Horny? What’s up?”

Patric forced himself to look back up at Marc’s face before taking a few nervous steps backwards. “Sorry, I didn’t realize anyone was in here. I’ll come back in a little bit.”

Somehow, Patric managed not to slam the door behind him when he left. Ignoring the pain from doing so, Patric clambered over to the bathroom and threw the door open, letting it slam shut before leaning heavily against it.

Patric took several short, shallow breaths; trying not to hyperventilate as he stared at the wall in front of him, finally feeling his heart slow down after a little while.

He heaved one long, final breath, exhaling raggedly as he looked down at the floor before swallowing slowly and allowing himself to slide down the door a little.

Although he had mostly regained his composure by this point, his dick continued to strain against his now much-too-confining clothing. Taking care of that here was not exactly an option. 

This would hurt like a motherfucker, but he had his pride.

Patric took a deep breath and held it as he crossed one leg over his groin, gritting his teeth as he hooked his foot behind his standing calf muscle and clenched the working leg down before shutting his eyes.

He released the hold once he began seeing stars and exhaled quickly. Hopefully there weren’t any claw marks in the door. 

Patric’s heart almost leapt out of his chest when he felt force against the other side of the door. After one quick downward glance to confirm the intended effect, he stepped forward to let the increasingly insistent person on the other side of the door in. 

Apparently Patric’s face was still extremely red, as concern crossed Sid’s face the second he stepped into the bathroom. “Horny? You okay?”

Lying would just earn Patric a callout and a five-minute lecture. “…Not really.”

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Nope.” With that, Patric scrambled out of the bathroom, leaving a confounded Sid in his wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reference for the high-sticking injury to Flower courtesy of [ this video.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cvoy4J1tEVY)
> 
> Quotes from Rutherford and Sully taken from [ here](http://triblive.com/sports/penguins/9617871-74/coach-mike-agnew) and [ here.](http://triblive.com/sports/penguins/9620284-74/sullivan-penguins-practice)


	9. Look Away

Who the hell was calling right before midnight? And why were they trying to call back right after Patric had let it ring through once before already? 

_“Gubben,_ turn that off,” Malin requested from her blanket cocoon on the other side of the bed. Patric grumbled as he pushed himself out of bed and lurched over to the dresser. The phone had stopped ringing by the time the voicemail notification pinged.

“The hell?” Patric wondered aloud as he opened up the call log. The fog of sleepiness faded when he saw that not only had the two missed calls been from Hags, but so was the voicemail message. 

“Hags?” Something told Patric that he really should listen to the message, so he pressed the playback button and placed the phone against his ear.

“Horny?” The voice in the message was broken and fatigued, and if Hags hadn’t already been crying when he called, he was very, very close. “I know you’re probably asleep, but…can you call me when you…” Hags choked back a sob. “When you get this? ... Please?” The message was silent for several long seconds before ending.

By this point, Malin had propped herself up on one elbow and was turned towards Patric. “That was Haggy? What’s going on?”

“I’m about to find out.” Patric left the bedroom, closing the door behind him before going downstairs and turning on the kitchen light. Here was probably a sufficient distance not to wake Isabella or bother Malin. He leaned against the kitchen counter before going into his contacts list and calling Hags.

Hags picked up on the first ring. “Hello?” From the sway in his voice, it was clear that Hags had been crying since leaving the message.

“Hags, what’s wrong?” 

“We played the Rangers tonight.” Hags took a deep breath, trying to keep his voice steady. “It was the first time I saw Mats since…” 

“Since?” Patric prompted.

“Since…we decided to end it. It wouldn’t work out anymore, not on different teams—”

“Wait.” Patric shuddered upon the sudden realization that he may have been right about Hags and Zucc all along. “You were…together?” 

“We _were._ Then right after I got traded, we decided we’d better break it off, since there was no way it would ever—”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” 

“I…” Carl’s breath hitched a few times before he managed to finish the rest of his thought. “I thought if I just pretended I never knew him, I could handle it, handle being in Anaheim…but…but tonight…”

“What happened?”

“I was so fucking stupid, went back to the old locker room to see him and Brass, thought I should say hi…and I _did_ see them. Making out.”

“Hags…” He didn’t even have a stake in the situation, but Patric could feel his heart breaking for Hags.

“They always were close, but right after the season started, things developed, and…” The sound on the other end of the line was something between a wail and a whimper. “And I got replaced. Mats said he still loves me, but it would never work, and he’s right, but…”

“Hags—”

“But it _hurts!”_ The floodgates opened as Hags began sobbing into the phone. “I never should have—”

“Better for you to find out now. I’m so sorry, Hags…”

“I…” Hags choked back a sob before finishing his thought. “I thought I was over him.”

“Do me a favor, okay? Don’t ever try to keep this all inside again. You’re never gonna get over him if you keep running from your feelings. It’ll take time, but you’ll get over him. And you’ll find someone else.”

“But—”

“No buts. If it was meant to be, you two would still be together. When one door closes, another one opens.” Funny Patric was saying that _now,_ considering he hadn’t believed it a year ago, but it seemed to apply here. “You two broke up for a reason.” 

“Shut up. You’re not helping.”

“If you _were_ meant to be together, you wouldn’t be a hysterical mess calling me in the middle of the night.”

Judging by the sudden gasp and subsequent silence in response, that statement had either struck a nerve or caused an epiphany.

“I don’t think either of them meant to break your heart. Look, it’s okay to be upset, but you need to take care of yourself, okay? It _will_ get better. I promise.”

There was a long pause before Hags spoke again. “You really think I’ll find someone else?”

“I _know_ you’ll find someone else. But you need to be by yourself for a while first.” 

Hags heaved a long, ragged sigh. “I’m sorry I called you so late.”

“Don’t be. I’m here for you. You can always call or text me whenever. I don’t care if it’s four in the morning. Just please talk to me. Okay?”

“…Okay. I feel a little better now. I’m going to bed.”

“All right. I’ll check on you tomorrow, okay?”

“K. Good night.” 

Patric sighed as he hung up and headed back upstairs. Hags had it much worse than him. All of his past breakups had involved screaming fights, but for two people to mutually end it, when they still loved each other dearly…

The pain had to be unimaginable.

Malin was already asleep by the time Patric went back to bed. It was probably just as well. She didn’t need to stay up worrying about Hags. He could fill her in tomorrow.

He was keeping the lines of communication wide open, and was more than willing to be a shoulder for Hags to cry on. 

But it still didn’t feel like he was doing enough, not when he was so far away.


	10. Shiverburn

Malin had finished the laundry, and Isabella hadn’t recently absconded with any of his things, so there was no reason for any of Patric’s shirts to be missing.

But there was only one remaining in the bottom of his bag, and he had taken three extras to practice.

This wasn’t the first time, either. Sometimes after practice, he’d discover he was missing one or more of his shirts.

To make things stranger still, the purloined shirts would always reappear in his bag two or three weeks later. None of the other guys had recently lost any articles of clothing, only him. 

If this was someone’s attempt at a prank, it was a piss-poor one. Which meant that when he finally found the fucker, Patric would have to show them what a _real_ prank was.

***

Thankfully the ice bath was a great way to kill a boner. Now Patric couldn’t even get near it without a Pavlovian response. 

Now that Marc was off injured reserve, the fantasies came rushing back. Up until now, Patric had been much too busy worrying about him. Occasionally during his free time, he’d stop at the Fleurys’ house and check on him. Vero was more than capable of taking care of Marc, and did a great job, but Patric still needed the reassurance.

Apparently some of the other guys did too; since among Patric, Sid, Tanger, and Duper, there was pretty much a revolving door of teammates visiting the Fleurys at any given time.

At least his worry over Marc was understandable. But the intrusive memory of the conclusion of their first practice with Sully was disconcerting.

Patric mulled on the image as he shifted in bed, getting tangled in the sheets. He was alone at this early hour, staring blankly at the vacant spot on the other side of the mattress. Malin had gotten up to change Isabella an hour earlier and never came back to bed. 

His cock stirred as his mind replayed the image of the water rushing down Marc’s body as he stood up in the tub.

Then Marc began to speak before correcting himself, as nicknames were sacrosanct among teammates. But Marc had almost spoken Patric’s name.

And he wanted desperately to hear his name escape Marc’s lips.

Patric mulled on the memory of Marc standing up once more; the fluid motion sending rivulets of water down his perfect frame while all of the active muscles twitched underneath the fabric clinging to his skin.

Then Marc turned towards Patric, those russet eyes focused directly on him, staring straight into his soul as he slowly closed the distance between them.

And it was at that point that reality and fantasy diverged in the recesses of Patric’s mind as his hand slid down his pants.

“Pat?” Marc’s tone would be inquisitive; lilting slightly as he continued to approach.

There’d be no further words exchanged, but those thin lips would remain slightly parted, just begging to be kissed as Marc tilted his head before closing the remaining distance between them.

Patric’s fingertips would wander down the sides of Marc’s body as their mouths melded, sliding easily down the slick material and straight to the curve of Marc’s lower back, where they would dance along the hemline of the top before wandering underneath and tracing paths across the damp skin.

Marc would press his hands firmly against Patric’s shoulders before clenching one hand into a fist and clutching the material of Patric’s shirt while pulling it down and towards him. The other hand would meander up the back of Patric’s neck, sliding through his hair before resting on the crown of his head. The hand would then push firmly down, guiding them closer still as Marc practically devoured Patric’s mouth with his own. Marc’s tongue would be just like him: powerful yet flowing, agile as it explored every last crevice of Patric’s mouth; immutable as Patric would attempt to tame it with his own.

They’d almost lose their balance as Marc continued to force his body forward, but would regain their footing just in time for Marc to slam Patric’s back into the wall behind them. Marc’s hands would remain transfixed, but Patric’s would be sliding the hemline of Marc’s top further and further up his back until the material would force them to separate for a few brief moments before they both dove in for more.

Then Patric would shift his weight and pivot so Marc’s body slammed against the wall before pulling back slightly, just enough to graze Marc’s lower lip with his teeth before branding the nape of his neck, occasionally pausing to lap up the droplets of water that remained on the collarbone.

Marc would be giving as good as he was getting, clutching Patric’s hips and shoving them against his own as he ground their bodies together, continuing to grind against Patric as his hands grabbed the bottom of Patric’s shirt and jerked it up his frame. They’d pause for a few moments as Patric finished removing the shirt before tossing it aside, then lunge right back into another fierce kiss as they ground together once more, pulling one another closer still, hands clutching as much flesh as their grip would allow as nails dug into skin.

Patric could almost feel Marc against him now as he writhed his hips against the mattress, pulling along the gnarled sheets as he fucked into his fist, imagining the cool burn of the ice water mingling with the sweat of their bodies as they both tugged at remaining clothing, barely able to separate themselves long enough to send all of it forgotten to the floor.

His muscles began to clench as he pictured Marc taking the initiative, grabbing his hips once again and slamming their bodies together once more, allowing their cocks to glide across once another—

Then the vision plunged into blackness as Patric spasmed, coming with a guttural snarl before flopping down and sinking into the mattress, thoroughly spent. He heaved several long, ragged breaths before rolling over once his hand started getting numb.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of Malin in the open doorway, leaning against the frame and watching him with a great deal of interest.

From the flushed look on her face, she had been watching him for quite some time. 

“Uh…” If there had been a coherent thought somewhere in his mind, it disappeared the moment Patric opened his mouth.

A bemused smile crossed Malin’s face. “Well, good morning to you, too.” She winked at him salaciously before stepping back and pushing the door closed.

***

If Malin had wanted to watch Patric, she could have said so before. He wouldn’t have had any objections. Also, he wouldn’t have been jerking off thinking of Marc.

It was a moot point towards the middle of the afternoon, when she jumped his bones right after putting Isabella down for a nap. Aggression was not one of Malin’s normal traits, but apparently she had _really_ enjoyed the show.

Now they were both riding out the post-coital adrenaline spike on the living room couch. Malin was going through the DVR, catching up on what she normally didn’t get to watch during the day. Patric was mindlessly scrolling through his phone when the notification appeared.

_Penguins acquire forward Carl Hagelin from the Anaheim Ducks in exchange for David Perron and Adam Clendening._

The excited noise he made upon reading it was a cross between a bellow and a squee. Malin turned towards her husband with her jaw dropped in gobsmacked bewilderment. 

“What…was that?”

Patric couldn’t suppress the shit-eating grin spreading across his face if he tried. “Hags got traded to the Penguins.” 

_“Really?!”_ Malin’s eyes grew wide.

“He’ll be living in Pittsburgh! We’re on the _same team!”_ Patric leapt off the couch, landing with a loud thud.

“I’ll be glad to see him more often.”

Patric’s exuberance was now limitless, almost hazardous in its pure euphoria as he began jumping up and down repeatedly, causing the floor to vibrate. “Hags is a Penguin! Hags is a Penguin! Hags is a Penguin!”

“Stop that. You’ll wake Isabella.”

“Hags is a _PENGUIN!”_ Patric shrieked at the top of his lungs before leaping as far as he could across the living room. Malin glared at him when Isabella began crying upstairs, then shot him another dirty look as she headed towards Isabella’s room.

Patric paused the exhilaration long enough to send Carl a quick text. When he looked up from his phone, he discovered that a now-grumpy Isabella had been placed at his feet.

Patric glanced down at Isabella before looking back up at Malin, who was standing stone-faced near the stairs. “Was I being too loud?”

He moved just in time to evade the pacifier that Malin threw at him, which fell harmlessly to the floor.


	11. Third Wheel

If Patric were still single, he would have let Hags crash at his place for a few days without a second thought. Clearly this was not the case, but Hags was still over fairly often during the first week when he wasn’t on the ice or trying to unpack at his new place, which was that much more excruciating the second time around.

The head office had hooked Hags up with a condo close to the city, and he was living out of boxes at this point. When he had moved to Anaheim, it took him two weeks to locate everything, and he later grumbled to Patric that wasn’t looking forward to how long it would take this time.

Then again, maybe that was one reason Hags kept coming over. There was something to be said for having more than a two-bedroom condo, but house hunting would only occur if he was certain the move would work out. Hags was understandably gun-shy now, which was likely another reason he was following Patric around like a puppy at CONSOL or in Cranberry.

Helping Hags get acclimated became another high priority for Patric, along with his continued attempts to get Phil out of his shell. He was finally seeing some results now that he realized it took some subterfuge to get Phil to talk. 

If Patric asked Phil about himself in any way, any response was usually six words or less. But if he asked Phil about things that were somehow _related_ to him, he’d start to open up a little more.

Patric hadn’t even thought it was a big deal the day he asked Phil, “Your sister plays, doesn’t she?”

But when Phil nodded enthusiastically and talked for more than five minutes about Amanda, he realized that he’d just made a major breakthrough.

Keeping this in mind, Patric decided it might be a good idea to introduce him to Hags. By no means was Hags an introvert, but his personality was far less intense, so maybe they’d get along. 

That idea went out the window when Patric was the last of the three to arrive at the next practice after the trade, where he soon discovered that not only had Hags already introduced himself to Phil, the two of them were already fairly chatty—well, chatty for Phil, at least.

This was a good thing, though. Maybe if Patric invited the two of them out with him one night, he could help Phil to remember how to loosen up every now and then. Of course, this was assuming Phil agreed. While Phil visited Patric and the other guys from time to time, he usually declined any invitations to go anywhere. Only Geno and Sid had ever been successful in getting him out of the house.

Which made it all the more surprising when he actually accepted Patric’s invitation. Of course Hags did. Not only was he always up for whatever, but he was still trying to get oriented to Pittsburgh.

In light of that, there was only one place where Hags could get the full Pittsburgh experience straight away: Primanti’s in the Strip District, because nothing screamed Pittsburgh like Iron City beer and obscenely large sandwiches with shitloads of grilled meat, topped with tomatoes, coleslaw and French fries. Anything on the menu violated their meal plans for at least the next two weeks, but the place was always worth it, even if Patric’s insides angrily protested for the rest of the night.

Not only did Carl seem to like the place, but Phil actually appeared to be enjoying himself as well, even though he still remained fairly silent in response to Patric, something that he lamented when Phil’s back was turned.

“I still can’t get him to talk that much,” he told Hags.

“Nobody talks as much as you do,” Hags replied. “He’s fine. The way you talked about him before, I was expecting some sort of kicked puppy, but no, he’s actually pretty outgoing. It’s just that everyone is quiet compared to you, Mr. ‘I have no settings between off and high.’” 

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?!” Patric snapped indignantly. Carl opened his mouth to speak, but was soon distracted by the arrival of his capicola and cheese. 

“Damn.” Carl’s eyes were practically the size of dinner plates as he gawked at the monstrous sandwich in front of him. “You weren’t kidding about these.” He reached into his pocket and retrieved his phone.

“What are you doing?” Patric asked, confused.

“I need to Instagram the fuck out of this.”

Phil doubled over in laughter on the other side of the table. He stopped for a moment once Carl finished taking the picture and returned his phone to his pocket. Once they caught a glimpse of one another, they both started laughing hysterically.

Patric glanced at Phil, then at Hags, wondering what the hell was so funny.

Maybe it was the beer, but Phil sure was loosening up over the course of the night. He hadn’t even had that many, and Iron City was gnat’s piss compared to some of the other beer available elsewhere on the Strip.

But Hags was right. Phil really was being outgoing. Was he always like this, and Patric just hadn’t figured it out before? Or was something else going on?

Patric reflected on this quandary as he made his way back upstairs from the basement, where he had suddenly been reminded of just why one in their right mind should not drink enough to need to use the basement restroom facilities in Primanti’s. He would definitely be taking a shower when he got home.

As he made his way back to their table, Patric couldn’t help but notice the complete change in Phil’s personality. He was hanging on Hags’ every word, nodding attentively at times, smiling at others, and occasionally cracking up. 

By the time Patric returned to his seat, Hags and Phil were both laughing uncontrollably. Patric couldn’t help but feel a twinge of chagrin. It had taken him five months to get Phil anywhere near this comfort level. Hags, meanwhile, had only taken less than a day.

“What the _fuck?!”_ Patric threw his hands up in disbelief and gawked at Phil. “You’ll talk to him, but not me?”

“I usually have nothing to say,” was Phil’s nonchalant reply. “Now I do.”

_“Djävla fitt helvete.”_ Patric shook his head in frustrated annoyance and reached for his beer.

***

It was well after midnight when Patric got home that night, so Malin had already gone to bed. When he told her about the outing the next morning, he also vented his frustration about how Hags had gotten Phil out of his shell when he couldn’t. 

_“Älskling,_ I keep telling you…” Malin rolled her eyes and sighed in frustration. “The problem is you’re going full throttle on the guy. Just back off a little and let him come around. Haggy isn’t intense like you are. That’s probably what it is.”

“Whaddaya mean, ‘full throttle’? When I have I ever gone full throttle on anyone?”

“Where do I even begin, my cuddle bug?”

Malin’s use of her pet name for her husband triggered a sudden epiphany. “Wait…are you saying…I’m scaring him?”

“Probably.” Malin got up and took her dishes to the sink, but continued talking. “Think about it. He had all these people in Toronto sniping at him, and suddenly, along comes someone who is all up in his face. Of course that’ll make him anxious after all that.”

Patric’s jaw dropped. Had he been doing it all wrong this whole time? 

“I’m not saying you shouldn’t be nice or try to make him feel better, but dial it down a bit. Let him open up to you on his own time. He’ll come around.”

Silently, Patric propped his elbows onto the dining room table and placed his head in his hands, staring at his empty plate. Suddenly, he felt like the biggest asshole in the Keystone State. If Malin was right, all that time he’d been trying to get Phil to open up, he’d been putting him on the defensive.

He owed the guy an apology, along with an explanation. 

Interestingly enough, however, when Patric attempted both when they were suiting up, Phil didn’t seem the slightest bit fazed.

“I just figured that’s how you were,” Phil explained. “I mean, yeah, you really don’t have any settings between off and high, but that’s just how you roll, eh?”

“You’re not mad or anything?” Patric wasn’t so much relieved as he was surprised.

Phil reached for the tape. “Why would I be? I just wondered why you were so interested in talking to me way back when.” 

“Like I said back then, I wanted to be friends.” 

“So…” Phil paused mid-tape and gazed intently at Patric. “Would you consider us friends now?”

“We are if you think so.”

At last, Patric successfully got a full smile out of Phil, as opposed to the guarded smirks he’d seen when they first began talking. 

“Yeah,” Phil replied with a nod. “Yeah, I do.” He made quick work of taping his shins and placed the roll back in his bag.

“Good.” Now Patric was beaming as well. “That’s good.”

There was an extra spring in Patric’s step as he headed into the tunnel, now that he knew for certain that not only had his efforts over the past few months not been in vain, but were appreciated and reciprocated as well.


	12. A Night on the Town

When the baby Pens invited everyone out for a night on the town with them, of course Patric said yes, because he said yes to everything. He was always up for hanging out with the guys.

But once they arrived at the nightclub, the age difference was apparent.

This wasn’t like shooting the shit with Hags and Phil at Primanti’s for a few hours. The baby Pens apparently preferred excessively crowded places with flashing lights and godawful music where you couldn’t hear yourself think, let alone move an inch without bumping into and pissing off someone.

Not only that, but either he had gotten lost, everyone had somehow got separated, or they had ditched Patric. For all he knew, it could be just like Stockholm, where everyone he had come with would ditch him in search of illegal substances. There was no way of telling with this many people in the club. 

If there was one thing Patric hated, it was being alone. What was the point of going out with anyone if they wouldn’t even hang out with you? 

_Fuck it,_ Patric said to himself before turning around and leaving.

It was an unseasonably warm winter in Pittsburgh, so much so that Patric only needed a light jacket outside. He wandered the downtown streets, debating whether he should stop at a bar for a drink, or just hail a cab and call it a night.

Market Square had some pretty good bars. He could make his decision then. He was already heading in that direction anyway.

Surprisingly, nobody recognized him. Then again, if they’d started early, everyone he walked by was probably too drunk to be able to. 

Once he set foot on Market Square’s cobblestone, Patric stopped dead in his tracks when he heard a very familiar voice.

“No, I can’t cancel the reservation.”

Patric turned towards the sound of the voice. He saw Marc standing at the entrance to Perlé, holding his phone against his ear.

“That’s the problem. They won’t let me reschedule either.”

Intrigued, Patric headed over to where Marc was standing. Odds were Marc was talking to Vero.

“…Yeah, that’s the problem. They won’t—No, I can’t just go by myself. Not when you’re home. Not—” Marc looked up and made eye contact with Patric, who was only a few paces away at this point.

“…Actually, the problem may have just solved itself. I’ll text you in a bit, okay? Love you too. Bye.” Marc hung up his phone and placed it in his pocket before walking the rest of the way over to Patric.

Marc’s smile was contagious, bright as always. It was the same smile he had given Patric whenever Patric had presented him with a game puck. 

“Hey, Pat.”

_His name._ Marc had spoken _his name._

It was the most melodic thing Patric had ever heard.

Now that the final barrier had been shattered, Patric knew it was okay to call Marc by his name as well. “Hey, Marc. What’s going on?”

“Well, I made reservations here for a date with Vero, but now she’s stuck at home because the girls picked up something and are puking their guts out. Meanwhile, I paid ahead, and they’re refusing to cancel or even reschedule. So…” Marc stared straight into Patric’s eyes, peering once again into his very soul. “Are you by yourself tonight?”

Patric felt his heart stutter. “Yeah,” he replied with a hopeful smile. “I’m alone.”

“Good.” The bright smile returned to Marc’s face once more. “So am I. It must be fate.” Patric swore he could see a certain twinkle in Marc’s eyes.

“So…” Marc began before pausing momentarily, searching for the right phrase. “Would you do me the honor of gracing me with your presence tonight?”

Patric’s nerves sprang to life and fired on all cylinders as his heart almost leapt out of his chest. Was Marc _asking him out?!_

“I’d love to.”

The look on Marc’s face was a cross between giddiness and relief. “Looks like they already have a spot for us. Shall we go?”

“Lead the way.” 

***

After less than a minute of Marc straightening things out with the bouncer, they were led through the main bar and lounge area to a Prohibition-era styled bar in the back known as the Speakeasy, complete with an appropriately-dressed bartender. The bouncer showed them to a booth in a secluded corner where they could watch the world pass by without being seen themselves.

Clearly the staff knew Marc and Vero well, as there was already a bottle of champagne, two pre-poured flutes, and a plate of something or other that Patric didn’t recognize next to two smaller plates.

“The hell are these?” Patric inquired, jabbing one of the items on the plate cautiously with his fork.

“Fried green tomatoes. Vero loves these.” Marc scooped up several of the tomatoes onto the nearest plate with his fork before helping himself to the Creole mustard.

_“Here?”_ Patric could have sworn this was a champagne bar…which happened to serve Creole food?

“The manager owns NOLA on the Square, too, so they have things like oysters and beignets on the menu.”

“Huh.” Patric took Marc’s cue and placed some of the tomatoes on the remaining empty plate. “So, what do _you_ like here?”

“The fried alligator. Though we both like the oysters. And the beignets. Save room for those.”

“Okay, the oysters and beignets I’d expect, but alligator?” 

“I know it sounds weird, but it’s really quite good. You want to try some?”

It did sound weird, but Patric didn’t want to hurt Marc’s feelings. “Yeah, sure, why not.”

The smile returned to Marc’s face as he picked up his champagne flute. _“Santé.”_

Patric smiled warmly as he held up his own flute. _“Santé,”_ he repeated before they clinked their glasses together and each took a sip of champagne. 

Whatever was in the flute was a little sweet for Patric’s tastes, but it was surprisingly light. He could get used to it. “Hmm. This another one of Vero’s favorites?”

“Yeah, though I usually end up ordering other stuff from back here. I like the Speakeasy much better than the main lounge. Nice and quiet.”

Patric nodded. Of course there was music, but there was really something to be said for a place where you could actually _hear_ the person you came with. He zoned out for a few moments between bites of fried green tomatoes as he took another long sip of champagne, wondering if Marc was onto something about fate. They never actively sought one another out, and yet, they always managed to find each other.

“I’m glad you’re here.”

“Hmm?” Patric’s attention immediately snapped back to his immediate surroundings.

“Well, for one, you got me out of a jam.” Marc finished his champagne before setting the now-empty flute back on the table. “And besides…I really like being with you.”

“Yeah?” Patric’s nerves flickered back to live, sending sparks across his skin.

“Yeah.” Marc propped his head against his hand and leaned over, smiling beatifically. “How often do we get to be alone?”

Patric scolded himself as he felt his face flush, repeating his new mantra to himself: _He didn’t mean anything by that._ “Not that much.” He dove into the rest of his fried green tomatoes, hoping food would distract him.

“Yeah, it’s usually the guys or the girls with us.” Marc grabbed the champagne bottle and poured himself another glass. “But I like being alone with you.”

Thankfully the waiter came by with an order of fried alligator to keep Patric from saying or doing something incredibly fucking stupid. And Marc was right: the fried alligator actually _was_ really good.

“Told you so. You gonna start listening to me?” Even now, Marc could get a chirp in. 

Patric shrugged as he finished the rest of his champagne. “Well, you know this place so much better than me.” He poured himself another glass and frowned once he discovered he had emptied the bottle. 

“Relax, I got this. You want anything else?”

Even though he was starting to get buzzed from the champagne, food did seem to help, so apparently Patric actually _was_ hungry. “Oysters?”

“You read my mind. Anyway…I thought you were hanging out with the baby Pens tonight?”

“I’m too old for that shit.” It wasn’t that Patric didn’t like the baby Pens, but Marc was far better company. Especially when it was just the two of them.

Marc nodded in understanding. “Yeah, I learned early on that there’s a huge difference between your club friends and your real friends.”

“Yeah, and you’re definitely not gonna meet anyone worth knowing in a club, either. I learned that the hard way.” Patric gazed ruefully at the contents of his flute as he threaded the stem between his fingers, realizing that was the first time he had thought of Matthias in months. Previously, he’d been so adamant about reminding himself of one of his worst mistakes whenever his mind wandered to forbidden realms, but the caution had faded without a trace at some point, and remained forgotten up until that very moment.

“She break your heart?”

“We…” Patric set down the flute and placed both of his hands flat on the table. The last time he had dredged all of these memories up had been with Malin when they were getting serious. “We were both thinking with the wrong heads. But yeah, you could say that.”

“…Oh.” The expression on Marc’s face upon realizing what Patric meant betrayed his awkward tone. While Marc’s tone was slightly apologetic, his eyes and head tilt indicated rising interest.

“Ever been so attracted to someone you put up with a lot of shit you wouldn’t tolerate otherwise? Yeah, never again. Hell, I didn’t even date anyone again until I met Malin two years later.” Just _why_ was he telling Marc all this? Now he’d definitely crossed the line into oversharing and was ruining the night. “I’m sorry. I’ve said too much.”

“No.” Marc’s voice was now firm, yet gentle. “Nobody deserves to be treated that way. Especially not you. I can’t even begin to imagine...”

“Well, you lucked out and got to avoid all the single life drama.”

“I used to wonder about that myself.” Marc poured himself another glass of champagne. “Sometimes I used to wonder if maybe I’d gotten married too soon. Some of the guys way back when always asked why I was tying myself down when I still had my whole life ahead of me. I eventually started wondering if they were right.”

Patric’s eyes grew wide at the implications of what Marc had just said. He was worried about being _tied down?_ “What do you mean?” 

“This’ll sound weird, but…You know how Vero and I have known each other pretty much forever, right?” 

Patric placed his hands back on the table and nodded, staring at Marc intently. Clearly, Marc was about to say something very personal and important.

“All my teammates in the past used to go out with all these other girls and I would wonder if I was missing out on something. They seemed to be having so much fun, and I used to get chirped about always turning down invitations, so I began wondering if maybe I was rushing things with Vero. I mean, I had the rest of my life to get married and have kids, but…”

“Different strokes for different folks,” Patric offered. “It’s not anyone else’s place to tell you what to do.”

“Well, I did eventually figure that out. I thought about it a lot, and…yeah, I’m happy. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Patric nodded. “You’re right, I’m the same way…though I did take the long road.” 

The conversation came to a brief halt when the waiter placed two dozen oysters on the table. Vinaigrette. This place _did_ go all out. There was really no need for the oyster crackers provided, but again, different strokes for different folks. 

The oysters were a delicious distraction, but Patric decided now was as good a time as any to ask what he was now curious about. “Do you regret anything?”

“I used to wonder, but…no.” Marc discarded an empty oyster shell onto the plate in front of him. “You have a little one, too. You know how it is. They love you no matter how badly you fuck up…and what could be better than that? And no matter how long I’m on the road, I come back to them and Vero…”

“Yeah.” There really was nothing like having someone waiting for you when you came home, or never having to sleep alone again. “I mean, you can meet anyone at a club…but I never wanted someone who wouldn’t be around when I woke up in the morning.” 

“See? You get it.” Marc downed the rest of his champagne. 

Patric spooned some vinaigrette onto his next oyster before noticing that his champagne flute would soon be empty. Instinctively, he reached for the bottle in the middle of the table.

Apparently Marc had the same idea, as their hands brushed together when they simultaneously went for the neck of the bottle that separated the distance between them.

A sudden surge of warmth coursed through Patric as he suddenly felt every last inch of Marc’s hand against his. Marc’s hand flinched slightly at the touch, but thankfully didn’t pull away. 

“Uh…” Patric couldn’t help but laugh awkwardly. “You go first.” Regretfully, he withdrew his hand from Marc’s.

“If you insist.” Marc poured himself another glass of champagne before offering the bottle to Patric. He didn’t pull away or flinch at all when their hands brushed together a second time as Patric went for the neck of the bottle.

It was almost as he was _inviting_ Patric to touch his hand. After all, he just left it there as Patric curled his fingers around the neck of the bottle, paying no mind to how his fingertips whispered across the lines of Patric’s palm. 

Patric poured himself another glass, forcing himself to banish the thousand daydreams from his mind before setting the bottle back onto the table. 

There was a brief period of silence as they dug back into their oysters before Marc spoke again. “I wanted to thank you for the end of last season. That means a lot to me.”

Patric felt his blood pressure spike, knowing _exactly_ what Marc was referring to. “It…it was nothing.”

“No. It _was_ something.” Now, it was Marc who was placing his hands flat on the table. “I mean, Sid always takes care of me…but not like you did. Or you do.”

“Well, I…” Patric was likely about to expose one of his greatest vulnerabilities, but somehow, it seemed appropriate to let his guard down, even if there were other people around. “I know what others say about you. And you’re so much more than what they do say…You’re strong, you’re talented, you’re better than they think, and…” 

And suddenly, everything he had wanted to say wasn’t coming out coherently at all. Perhaps it was because he couldn’t say what he _really_ wanted to. “I’m sorry. I’m babbling.”

“No.” Marc propped his elbows on the table and cradled his head in his hands. “Please continue.” Marc’s euphoric smile and the adoring look in his eyes indicated pure, unadulterated interest.

Nobody besides Malin had ever looked at Patric in such a way. 

“I…” There were so many things Patric wanted to say, but he would never be able to. “I don’t ever want to see you like that again. So I have to make sure I’m good enough so that I don’t.”

“I guess that means I need to do my part too.” Marc gave Patric one more adoring glance before reaching for the oyster fork and finishing his plate.

Eating. Yes. That was a good idea. Maybe then, Patric wouldn’t be rambling like a complete idiot.

The waiter came by to relive the pair of the empty champagne bottle and confirm that Marc did want an order of beignets. A few moments later, the waiter provided an additional bottle.

How many glasses would this be now? Oh well, it didn’t really matter. 

Marc returned to his earlier pose, propping his head back in his hands as he gazed over his newly-refilled champagne flute. “Let’s do this again sometime.”

“Yeah.” Marc’s beam was contagious, even if the alcohol was turning their faces bright red. “Here? Or somewhere else?”

“Either way. I just like being with you.” The alcohol was definitely having an effect on Marc, but a faint glimmer of his true self still flickered though the expression on his face. “Alone.”

Patric tried to remain calm, hoping his face didn’t betray the tumult of emotions within. “Just say when.”

Once again, the waiter saved Patric from making a fatal mistake when he brought the plate of beignets. 

***

They hadn’t even finished dinner when Marc had said that, yet he was making plans for a second outing? At least, that was how it seemed. 

Either way, Patric wasn’t about to ask what Marc meant, and certainly not in the back of a taxicab. Marc was chivalrous enough to give him a ride home. Patric owed the guy a favor now. 

The conversation was far less intimate with a third party listening, but it didn’t matter; not when Marc’s hand would occasionally brush over Patric’s thigh, likely a champagne-fueled impulse. Yet, Marc was still incredibly animated as the driver headed back to Patric’s house, more so then he normally was. The question remained in the back of Patric’s mind: was it drunkenness, or was it something else…?

No. He couldn’t allow himself to think that way, to hope against hope. Especially not when Marc deposited him at his doorstep, much to Malin’s surprise.

“I thought you were out with the baby Pens?” Malin inquired with a puzzled look.

“Change of plans,” Marc replied as he gently pushed Patric through the front door. 

Things weren’t so weird once Patric explained to Malin what had happened. 

But the next day, he received a text from Vero thanking him for taking her husband on a date. 

Patric’s first reaction was anxious embarrassment. Knowing her, she was likely joking, but what had he told her, if anything?

Then he realized: between them being alone at a nice place, the rather personal conversation, and the way Marc had been acting, along with the overall intimacy, she was right: they _had_ been on a date.

And hopefully, there would be many more. Nothing had to happen, per se. Patric could go without physical contact.

He’d be alone with Marc. That was all that mattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I personally prefer Yves Carreau's flagship restaurant [ NOLA on the Square ](http://www.nolaonthesquare.com/) due to my weakness for Creole food, NOLA on the Square, but [ Perlé ](http://www.perlepgh.com/)is a very unique place if you don't like typical nightclubs, especially for the "too loud" factor elsewhere. Though, like our two protagonists, I prefer the Speakeasy because it's quiet and intimate, not to mention the theme is awesome. 
> 
> Also, "unseasonably warm" does not even begin to describe last year's winter. It was 74 degrees and we had a thunderstorm Christmas Eve, so...yeah.


	13. Sometimes Love Just Ain't Enough

Patric had almost forgotten what winning games felt like.

True, there’d been shootout and overtime losses thrown into the mix, but there were actually _wins_ occurring. For the first time since the beginning of the season, it felt like they were actually on the right track.

The newfound camaraderie also helped, especially now that Hags was around. If Patric and Hags weren’t together or talking, they were texting. Or, at least, they were, albeit not as frequently. Hags was making his own friends now, and he was spending an awful lot of his time either hanging out with or talking to Phil. Those two had become inseparable. 

Things were going so well now that Patric didn’t have any reason to believe anything could possibly be amiss. After all, Hags fit in quite nicely.

He should have known better, especially since they were playing the Rangers that night.

Everything started out well enough as Patric fiddled with the tape while listening to Bones telling Cullen a recent story about Maisie. If he thought she was a handful now, he was in for a few surprises once she started crawling.

But then Phil came by and quickly scanned the area before asking, “Where’s Haggy?”

Patric looked up before realizing that Phil was right. Even though Hags had acclimated to his new surroundings by now, he never strayed too far from either one of them. But he was nowhere to be seen in the locker room. “Good question. I don’t know.”

They got their answer when they peered into the hallway and saw Hags slumped against the wall a few feet away, staring forlornly at his phone. Patric took a few cautious steps forward before catching a glimpse of Hags’ phone screen.

Hags didn’t even notice them as he continued staring at the photo on the screen of himself and Zucc with their arms around one another. 

“Haggy?” Phil began, but abruptly stopped when Patric pulled insistently on his jersey. 

“Hey, listen.” Patric lowered his voice. Phil turned his head and opened his mouth to say something to him, but paused when he saw the solemn look on Patric’s face.

“What’s going on?” Phil realized something was amiss and lowered his voice as well.

Patric pulled on Phil’s jersey again, more gently this time. “Come over here a minute. There’s something I need to tell you about Hags.”

***

Perhaps the shared emotional weight was why neither Patric nor Phil were too terribly upset about the Rangers shutting them out that night. The revelation of Hags and Zucc’s history hit Phil like a ton of bricks. Like Phil had said about himself, Patric couldn’t even imagine how painful it had to be to break up with someone you still loved. But then again, it was probably the right thing to do. They could either break up on good terms, or they could try (and most likely fail, given the way the NHL operated) to maintain a long distance relationship and drift apart, which would probably have been much worse for both of them.

Either way, Hags was much stronger than Patric ever could hope to be, even though it was clearly eating away at him.

The half-embrace between Hags and Zucc in the handshake line made it extremely clear that they were definitely not over one another. Malin was right: they probably never would be. 

Patric and Phil both thought that maybe if they invited Hags out somewhere after the game, they could try and get his mind off of everything. But when they searched for him, he was nowhere to be found. According to Dumo, he had gone off somewhere with Zucc and Brass.

It made sense. They’d been an inseparable squad in New York, basically the Three Musketeers.

But Patric couldn’t help but feel that it was a really, really bad idea.

Hags didn’t answer the casually concerned texts Patric sent until the following morning, and his answers were very nondescript. At least he wasn’t obviously heartbroken when he sent them, so that was a good sign.

Something had definitely happened, though. When they all arrived for morning skate, Hags made a beeline right past the bench where Patric and Phil were taping up their sticks, not even acknowledging either one of them as he normally did. 

“Haggy?” Phil put down his stick and stood up.

“Phil, don’t.” 

“But—” Phil began.

Even though his back was still turned, Hags clearly knew what they were both talking about. “No…it’s okay.” 

“Haggy—” Phil took a step forward, but was thwarted when Patric grabbed his jersey and yanked it back towards him.

Hags lowered his head and stared blankly at the floor. “As long as he’s happy…that’s all that matters.”

***  
Patric never said anything to Hags about Zucc after that, and as far as he knew, neither did Phil. However, the Penguins were now on fire, and so were the Rangers. At this rate, a matchup between the two teams in the playoffs was looking increasingly likely. This worried Patric, as he wasn’t sure how Hags would hold up if that happened. But Malin was right: he needed to butt out unless Hags approached him again.

Besides, he was in no position to give any advice. How could he solve Hags’ romantic problems if he couldn’t even figure out his own feelings for Marc? They’d hung out alone a couple more times since the night at Perlé, and even though everything was completely platonic, it made him feel eighteen again. 

Patric reflected on his dilemma as he looked down to confirm that yes, Isabella was _finally_ asleep in his arms. She’d been up screaming for the past three hours, and everything he and Malin had tried was to no avail. He wasn’t quite sure how he’d finally gotten her to sleep but, one thing was clear: she was never having peas again. He set Isabella down in her crib as gently as he could before tiptoeing out of her room and turning out the light before slowly and gingerly pushing the door shut. 

After waiting for a few moments and hearing nothing but silence, Patric crept down the stairs and entered the living room, where Malin was on the couch watching a movie. Malin turned her head once she heard Patric step into the room. “She asleep?” 

“Yeah, finally.” Patric sat down on the couch next to Malin. “What are you watching?”

_“Brooklyn.”_

“Never heard of it. What’s it about?”

“An Irish woman moves to the States and she’s in love with this American guy, but she has to go back home and falls in love with an Irish guy as well. So she has to choose, and I’m watching to see who she does choose, because quite frankly, I’m curious and I have to know how this ends.”

“Hmm.” Even without watching any of the movie, Patric could sympathize. The sudden question clawed at his insides, and he had to ask. “Do you think it’s possible to love two people at once?”

Malin leaned into Patric’s side. “Do you remember me telling you about Elias?”

Patric turned to look at Malin and nodded. Of course he remembered. When they had discussed their previous relationships, Elias had been front and center in her side of the conversation. Elias was the first guy she had ever been really serious about and she had hoped to marry him, but it was not to be.

“I loved him dearly. Honestly, I think I still do. Breaking up with him was the most painful thing I’d ever done, but he’d already failed out of university and couldn’t hold down a steady job. He kept doing things that would get himself fired from everywhere he worked. If I wanted a family, I couldn’t be with someone who didn’t have his life together. Even if I worked, how would we afford to have kids? And how would we watch them if both of us were working? Besides, what kind of example would that set for them?”

Patric wrapped his arm around Malin’s waist. “Yeah, I never thought about it that way, but you’re right.”

Malin looked up at the ceiling wistfully. “But when we were together, he made me feel like the most special woman in the whole entire world.” 

Patric squeezed Malin tighter as he gazed at her intently. “Do I…” He most likely already knew the answer, but his sudden insecurity compelled him to ask. “Do I make you feel that way?”

Malin turned to Patric and smiled brightly. “I never would have said yes if you didn’t. I may possibly still love Elias, but I love you, and nothing will ever change that. So, to answer your question, I think it is completely possible.”

“I think you’re right.” Patric snuggled closer to Malin as she leaned against his chest and turned her head towards the TV, focusing once more on the movie. He kept his arm around her, but he tuned out the movie, as he was no longer able to focus.

He was preoccupied with thinking long and hard about everything she had said.


	14. Second Time Around

Patric’s heart stopped when the puck hit Marc right in the head.

Forget Patric and the Penguins. Fate seemed to hate Marc. Sure enough, Patric’s worst fears were confirmed the day Marc was diagnosed with another concussion.

It was just another day in Pittsburgh.

Or maybe not. This season, they had Muzz. The kid played more like a seasoned veteran than a rookie who wasn’t even legal to drink yet. Nothing seemed to faze him, either. Sometimes Patric wondered if Muzz (or Matty, depending on his mood that day) had ice water running through his veins.

Maybe that’s why it felt different this year. Like maybe, just maybe, they could go all the way.

Or at least, it had. 

They’d made the playoffs. They had a chance to right the wrongs of the previous season.

But suddenly, it almost didn’t matter.

They’d have to trust Tishy, now that Muzz was hurt too, because why the fuck not. It wasn’t that he wasn’t capable, but he didn’t have the experience. And, in so many ways, it just wasn’t the _same._

Multiple concussions could really fuck someone up, and this was Marc’s second in a season. Forget the physical effects, but now that he might not be in the playoffs, Marc was most certainly devastated, and probably felt just as worthless as Patric did when he had the hamstring injury.

Sure, they had a new coach and were playing better than last season, but those facts didn’t seem so reassuring anymore.

More than anything, Patric just wanted Marc to be okay. 

As he had previously done, Patric occasionally drove to the Fleurys’ house to check on Marc, although this time he would check first whether Marc was feeling well enough for a visit. Now he was protective as well as concerned; not wanting to be the reason Marc might suddenly feel ill or not recover as quickly. 

Many times, Vero or Estelle would be with them during the visit.

But this visit was different. 

Marc opened the door before Patric even had a chance to ring the doorbell and flashed that boyish grin at him, paying no mind to the toddler clinging to his leg like a koala on a tree trunk.

“You seem to have developed a growth,” Patric commented offhandedly.

“It’s recurring,” Marc replied with a shrug as he leaned over and tried to coax Estelle free.

Patric crouched down to Estelle’s level. “Hi, Estelle. Are you taking care of your daddy?”

Marc lowered his head and translated the question for Estelle, who nodded silently.

“Good. You take good care of him, because I want him to get better too. Okay?”

After the second translation from her father, Estelle nodded again, but remained around Marc’s leg.

“Your daddy asked me to come take care of him, so it’s my turn. You’ve done a really good job. So why don’t you go play now, and you can take care of him again when I’m done?”

Estelle pondered the newest translated question for a moment before sliding off Marc’s leg and running off somewhere, presumably to find some toys.

“Wow.” Marc’s face lit up in admiration. “You’re really good with her.”

“Hey, I need more practice.” Patric tried to sound casual, but hoped the sudden flush he felt in his cheeks wouldn’t give him away. 

“No, you’re already an expert. Let’s go out back.”

It was an interesting choice of scenery. Normally when Patric was over, he and Marc would hang out in the living room, where it was easy for Marc to keep an eye on the girls and Vero would occasionally pass through, even though she didn’t stick around. 

When Patric asked why the sudden change in routine, Marc shrugged and nonchalantly replied, “Because it’s quiet and we’re alone out here.”

Heat suddenly coursed through Patric’s veins as he leaned back in the white Adirondack chair, contemplating their surroundings. Vero had gone all out this year with her flowerbeds, and the neatly-trimmed hedges had grown high enough that the neighbors wouldn’t be able to peek into their yard, let alone see the pair now sitting on the back deck. The setting was almost romantic. And Marc wanted to be alone with him out here, even with Vero in the house?

“Finally,” Marc sighed in exhaustion. “Silence.” 

The heat melted into a pang of repentance. Of _course_ constantly being around two kids was wearing Marc down. As much as one loved parenting, they could only take so much at one time before wanting to watch something that was not animated, or head to a restaurant that did not feature hot dogs, chicken tenders, or macaroni and cheese on the dinner menu. 

Patric had to stop thinking that these sorts of statements from Marc meant anything more, no matter how much he wished it to be true. 

“But I’m glad you’re here.”

And just like that, Patric’s fevered pipe dreams came flooding right back. “Well, of course. I’m worried about you. And you look like you could use some adult company.”

“Yeah…” Marc sighed wistfully. “I feel terrible because I _should_ be spending more time with Vero and the girls, and I am, but I want to be in net, you know?”

Patric nodded in understanding. It really was a compulsion that nobody outside the NHL would ever understand. “Still not feeling all that well, I take it?” After all, Marc had turned down his past three offers to come visit. 

“Is it too much to ask that I go more than four hours without a headache?” Marc sadly buried his head in his hands. “I can’t even blame it on the girls…”

“I know.”

“I…I make progress, then I backslide, and then I start wondering if I’ll ever be the same…”

“Trust me, I know exactly what you’re talking about.” 

“You’re right.” Marc perked up at the sudden recollection. “I forgot about that from last season. But it’s different this year, I think.”

“How so?”

“We have Matty and we’re not playing like shit.”

Marc’s dry acumen never failed to make Patric laugh. “Yeah, but…I want you to be there.”

“Hey, I already won one. It’s your turn. Besides…” Marc leaned forward in his chair and rested his hand against his right arm before dropping his left hand and resting it on Patric’s left knee. “I need someone to give the other teams hell while I can’t.”

Patric grinned sheepishly at the sudden contact. Marc had been fairly reserved in past weeks, most likely due to the combination of illness and despair, but suddenly, it was as if they were in the Speakeasy once more. “And you want _me_ to?”

“Who better than you?” The fingertips on Patric’s knee traced lazy zigzags up and down the skin, causing Patric to ponder just how unintentional the gesture really was. “Promise me something?”

“Anything,” Patric replied with an enthusiastic nod.

The boyish grin returned to Marc’s face, and Patric swore he saw that twinkle in Marc’s eyes once more; the one that had first appeared on that winter night in Market Square. “Score a goal for me next game?”

“How about a hat trick?” Patric suggested with an impish grin.

“You spoil me.” Marc’s grin soon contorted into teeth gritting in agony as he retracted his hand from Patric’s knee and clutched his head in both of his hands. “Not again…”

“Come on.” Patric sprung out of his chair and helped Marc to his feet. “You need to lie down.”

Marc placed a hand on Patric’s back for support as he began staggering towards the back door. “Probably need some more medicine…” 

“I’ll take care of that, okay? Come on.” Patric offered his arm to Marc, who moved his hand from Patric’s back and linked their arms together.

Marc nodded weakly; continuing to clutch his forehead with his free hand as Patric guided them both into the house.

When they stepped back inside the living room, Estelle was on the floor playing with her blocks. Vero, who had a squirming Scarlet in her arms, looked up from her spot on the couch and became visibly concerned when she saw Marc.

“What’s going on? What happened?”

“Another headache,” Patric explained. “I’m gonna take him upstairs to lie down. He said it might be time for more medicine?”

Vero nodded. “Now that you mention it, I think it is time. I’ll get it. You get him upstairs.”

Patric slowly led Marc up the stairs and down the upstairs hallway to the master bedroom, where he gently deposited Marc on the bed. This wasn’t what he’d had in mind whenever he imagined taking Marc to bed, but those thoughts were now long gone. 

After Marc had slid his feet out of his sandals, Vero came in with two giant pills and a glass of water, which she handed over to him. Patric grimaced at the size of the pills, wondering how Marc didn’t get them stuck in his throat without any candy coating. He didn’t seem to have any trouble, though.

Vero took the glass back from Marc. “I’ll take the girls outside so you can have some quiet.” Vero turned her head to face Patric. “Thank you.” With that, she stood up and left the room.

Patric took that as his cue to leave. “Let me know when you feel better and I’ll come back.”

“No, wait.” Marc’s hand darted out and seized Patric’s wrist. “Don’t go.”

Patric’s arm bristled at the sudden contact, which was unexpected but not unwelcome. “But you really should lie down.”

“I know.” Marc cocked his head to one side; his eyes glimmering in earnest. “Stay here with me. Please?”

Patric nodded in slight bewilderment. Was Marc lonely, or was he afraid?

Or was it something else?

“Thank you…” Marc’s voice wavered slightly as he lowered himself onto the bed and stretched his legs out, then turned away before his body sank into the mattress.

There wasn’t anywhere to sit in the room, so Patric had to make do with the edge of the bed’s opposite side. He bode his time by reading things on his phone in between glances to check on Marc.

When he opened his Google News feed, the article that popped up on the bottom of the page was immediate cause for concern.

 _Friendship between Mats Zuccarello and Carl Hagelin temporarily on hold in Rangers-Penguins series,_ the headline blared.

Patric couldn’t help but scoff at the word “friendship” as he skimmed the article fairly quickly. The writing was bland and used lots of words to say very little, but if Hags and Zucc had actually spoken to one another about this, there were definitely some unresolved feelings between the two, no matter how well Hags assimilated to Pittsburgh, or how close he was to Phil. 

This was way too important for a text or a call. Patric needed to bring this up at practice tomorrow.


	15. The Playoffs

Judging by the change in Hags’ demeanor and the fact that he didn’t acknowledge anyone else’s presence, there was definitely more on his mind than just the upcoming series with the Rangers.

Patric waited to approach him until they were both in a fairly secluded spot. “Hags—”

“Fuck off,” came the immediate reply.

“Okay. Geez.” Patric would have to think of something else.

Hags heaved a fatigued sigh. “Sorry…it’s just…I hoped it wouldn’t come to this.” Hags slumped against the wall and stared blankly at the ground.

Patric nodded, sidling closer against the wall. “You still love him, don’t you?”

“Of course I do,” Hags lamented. “I got used to playing him during the regular season, but now it’s the playoffs, and, well…”

“I know. It’s your first season away from him. It’ll get easier, I promise.”

“Remember when you said I’d move on? Because I haven’t.” 

“Really?” Patric raised an eyebrow. “Because I’m pretty sure you have.” 

Hags turned towards Patric with a baffled look on his face.

“Come on. You and Phil?”

_“WHAT?!”_ If Hags’ face had turned any redder, he would have borne a striking resemblance to a rutabaga. _“No!_ It’s not like that at all!”

“So you’re not together?”

“No.” Hags moved away to look back down on the floor.

“Oh. And here I thought you liked him.” 

The pinkish flush returned to Hags’ face as he glanced back up at Patric before immediately looking back down. “…What’s it to you?”

A victorious grin crossed Patric’s face. “So you _do_ like him.”

“What the _fuck?!”_ Hags scrunched up his shoulders and balled his fists as he stood straight up. “Is this Fuck with Carl Day or something? If I wanted somebody all up in my business, I’d call my mom.”

“He likes you too.”

All of the tension left Hags’ shoulders as his eyes widened and his arms suddenly slumped to his sides like spaghetti. “…He does?”

“Definitely. He spends way more time with you than anyone else here. Besides, he’s talked to you more in almost three months than me the entire season.” 

Hags turned to one side to face Patric, leaning heavily against the wall. “Well, yeah. We’re linemates.”

“Have you seen how he just lights up around you? He can’t stop smiling when you’re around. Not to mention, he doesn’t hug or touch anyone as much as he does you.”

The flush began to vanish as Hags mulled over Patric’s previous statement. “Yeah, but…how do we even know if he’s into guys? ‘Hey, Phil, you like Broadway musicals?’ Or, ‘Phil, what’s your favorite Cher album?’ It’s not like I can just ask him that sort of thing, you know?”

“Hmm.” Hags had a point. “Well then, how did you and Zucc end up together?”

“He told me he liked me.”

“And?” Patric prompted.

“I said I liked him too.”

“So, why don’t you tell him you like him?”

Hags shook his head. “Easy for you to say. I can’t just pull him aside somewhere and—”

“Why not?”

Hags raised his eyes towards the ceiling and gritted his teeth in a mix of embarrassment and exasperation. “Because I can’t—”

“Hey, guys.” The conversation came to a screeching halt when Phil spotted them and came closer.

Patric smiled. Phil’s timing was perfect. “Bye. See you later.” 

“Hey, wait!” Hags extended his arm in a futile attempt to stop Patric from scurrying down the hallway and stopping around a corner. Once Patric determined that he was an ample distance to not be caught eavesdropping, he pressed himself against the wall and moved as close as he could to the corner to avoid being seen.

“Hey, Carl,” he heard Phil say. “I was looking for you.”

Patric clenched his hands against his chest and grinned, trying to keep his gleeful cackling down. If Phil had dispensed with Hags’ nickname, well then…

“…Really?” The waver in Hags’ voice confirmed that Patric had been right.

“Yeah. What were you two talking about? Didn’t mean to interrupt anything, eh?”

“No, it was nothing important. Anyway, you wanted to talk?”

Clearly the two were walking away from Patric’s vantage point, as Phil’s voice began to trail off. “Yeah, Bones and I were thinking, maybe on the power play we could—”

Patric sighed and shook his head. So much for Plan A. 

***

It turned out that Patric didn’t need to worry about Mr. Game 1 being up to the task after all. The second game against the Rangers didn’t go anywhere near as well, but it was more their fault than Tishy’s. Quite frankly, they all played like shit that day.

Matchmaking would have to wait. At that point, Patric was more concerned with how Hags was holding up during the series. He hadn’t spent any additional time with his old teammates at that point, which likely saved him some heartbreak. But from the look on both Hags’ and Zucc’s faces whenever they were in the handshake line, it was clear that despite valiant efforts to stay strong, the situation was eating away at them both. 

Although he never said anything to anyone, Patric couldn’t help but wonder about Zucc and Brass. Was there really something there, or was Brass a rebound? Only time would tell. 

There was a renewed sense of optimism when the Penguins righted the ship and took Games 3 and 4. This was definitely different than the previous season. No infighting, no lack of direction, and no depleted roster. They could actually win this. Patric didn’t want to jinx anything, but he had a feeling they could win additional rounds besides this one. 

They just needed to get the first round monkey off their backs.

The mood and chatter were exuberant among those who had stayed behind. After all, they could end this at home in two more days. 

When he headed towards the showers, Patric caught a glimpse of Hags, Zucc, and Brass having a conversation on one of the benches. Uh oh. Despite his concern, he needed to keep his mouth shut.

Either Patric was slow or the crowd had already thinned out, as he and Phil had been the only ones in the showers. Patric dug through his bag and grumbled in aggravation when he realized that his Meshuggah shirt had gone missing. He’d put it there last week, so it could have disappeared any time between now and then. Still, though, it looked like he was stuck wearing the plain orange T-shirt he’d thrown in there as a failsafe, even though he thought it made him look like a traffic cone. 

Hags was now alone in the locker room, dejectedly rooted to the bench. Although his first instinct was to comfort Hags, something inside Patric told him that he should leave him alone for now and catch up later.

By this time, Phil was showered and dressed and had noticed as well. “Carl—”

“Leave him alone,” Patric warned gently as he attempted to grab Phil’s wrist, but reacted too slowly. Phil was on a mission now, and if he had been any closer, he would have bowled Patric over as he hurried over towards the bench.

Hags paid them both no mind as he began to leave. Patric could only watch in astonishment as Phil ignored him and hustled after Hags with determination on his face; his expression as intense as if a shootout were riding solely on his shoulders.

Gingerly, Patric followed to see what was going on. He stopped several paces back once he saw Phil.

“Carl, wait.” Phil had caught up to Hags by this point. Hags stopped in his tracks and offered no resistance as Phil grabbed his wrist.

Hags’ voice was low, mournful—almost defeated. “I told you. As long as he’s happy, that’s all that matters.”

“That’s the problem,” Phil declared. “He’s happy. You’re not.” 

When Phil released his wrist, Hags turned to face him, bafflement strewn all over his face. “Why do you care so much?”

“Carl, I—” Phil’s voice hitched as he searched for the right words. “I know why things are the way they are with you two, and I get it, but I hate to see you so sad. You don’t deserve that. You deserve everything, whatever you could possibly want. And I want to give you everything. I don’t ever want to see you sad.”

Hags inhaled sharply as his eyes widened in astonishment. “Phil?”

“Carl.” Phil’s tone was steadfast now, resolute as he gazed intently at Hags. “Let me make you happy."

The sudden shade of blue in Hags’ widened eyes rivaled the springtime sky as he took several deep breaths. His mouth moved, but there was no sound until he took another deep breath. “Phil…”

With that, Hags lunged forward and draped his arms around Phil, who was ready with an embrace of his own.

Everything fell silent as Hags closed his eyes and rested his head on Phil’s chest; sighing contentedly as the hand that was not around his waist stroked his hair. Phil took a deep breath of his own as he closed his eyes and cradled his head on Hags’ right shoulder.

They were truly in a world of their own. They didn’t even notice Patric tiptoe quietly past them on his way back to the hotel.

***

As Patric had hoped, they finished off the Rangers in Game 5. When Patric was getting cleaned up after media had finished with everyone, he saw Hags, Phil, Zucc, and Brass having a spirited conversation in the locker room.

Phil looked up when he saw Patric come in. “We’re going to Primanti’s, eh? Wanna come with us?”

Normally, the response to a Primanti’s invitation would be “hell to the fucking yeah,” but Isabella was under the weather and Patric had promised to give Malin a break when he got home. “Nah, I have to sit this one out. Family obligations, remember? You guys have fun.”

Hags nodded. “No big deal. Hope Isabella feels better. Just say when and we can take a raincheck.”

Patric smiled and nodded as he made his way down the open hallway with the echoes of their conversation behind him. Suddenly his smile grew wider as he realized exactly what was going on.

Hags was introducing Zucc and Brass to his new boyfriend.

This couldn’t have worked out any better. And he didn’t even have to get involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unintentional hilarity: when I was writing the initial conversation at the beginning of the chapter, I was trying to come up with red things, and settled upon "rutabaga." I looked it up to confirm I had the correct spelling, and lo and behold, it turns out the rutabaga is also known as the Swedish turnip.
> 
> I couldn't have come up with that if I had tried. I laughed for a good three minutes or so.


	16. The Truth We Can't Escape

Muzz had been in net from Game 3 of the series with the Rangers, and would remain so against the Capitals. If the fans and media hadn’t noticed him before, they sure as hell did now.

For all of the hype surrounding the Capitals that year, they folded fairly easily. Their strategy of “don’t worry about scoring, just beat the shit out of the other team” didn’t work after the series opener. 

Patric couldn’t help but start to panic when the series was 3-1. They’d been down that road before, and it was one he never hoped to travel again: they’d get a 3-1 lead, get cocky, and then start playing like shit and allow the other team to catch up just in time for them to blow the seventh game, lose the series, and end their season.

Rinse and repeat.

Fortunately, nobody was pulling that shit this year. All of the pieces had fallen into place. 

They could actually _win_ the whole damn thing. 

Whenever thoughts of what he would do on a day with the Cup entered his mind, Patric scolded himself; reminding himself that they still had the Lightning to worry about. 

Muzz was holding up amazingly well, but Patric couldn’t help but worry about Marc, who was still experiencing headaches. At this rate, it was unclear if he’d see any playoff action at all. 

Of course Marc wanted to be in net, but he was able to brush aside those feelings and support Muzz wholeheartedly. Even when Marc and Patric would discuss the topic whenever Patric came to visit, all Marc would do was smile and praise Muzz to high heaven. 

Marc really was stronger than Patric ever would be. If it were him, the anxiety and depression would be eating him alive. 

All of the chatter was true. Muzz really did have a focus and acumen beyond his years. And damn, did the kid learn quickly. Muzz and Marc would discuss strategy one day and he’d have mastered everything by that evening.

There was no shortage of superlatives for Muzz in the media, but one word always came to Patric’s mind: _prodigy._

Muzz’s meteoric talent was precisely what had him worried.

There was only room for one star goalie. Of course every team had a backup, but there was no room on the roster for three goalies.

Muzz hadn’t even hit drinking age just yet, and Marc was no spring chicken. 

Between the buzz regarding the Penguins’ goalie situation and rumors of an expansion draft in Vegas, it came to a point where Patric began avoiding NHL news. He didn’t need to keep hearing talking heads surmise about Marc’s fate next season. 

Avoiding the news worked until the news came straight to him. Reporters loved peppering Marc and Muzz with all sorts of questions that while innocuous on the surface, would stab Patric over and over with thousands of tiny needles, drawing blood with every precision strike.

Yinzer fans weren’t exactly much help, either. They were enamored with Muzz, and Marc continued to serve as a convenient punching bag. The criticism was all the same: _He’s inconsistent. He’s past his prime. If Flower were starting, they’d have lost the first round. Geez, the Pens really screwed themselves over with that contract last year, didn’t they? They don’t need him anymore._

Maybe those fans didn’t need Marc anymore. But Muzz and the rest of the guys needed him.

And so did Patric. _Especially_ Patric.

***

Even with media, practice, and the celebration at Sid’s after winning the second round, everyone still had a day to themselves after returning to Pittsburgh.

To be fair, most of the guys probably needed it to recover from their hangovers. It wasn’t the first time Patric had seen the guys drunk, but he didn’t recall Geno ever having had a conversation in Russian with the mailbox in front of Sid’s house. Yet, nobody else seemed to notice.

“You’re not worried?” Patric had asked Kuni.

Kuni shrugged. “I’m only gonna worry if that thing starts talking back.”

It got better. The highlight of the night was an extremely wasted Sid standing on his kitchen table with outstretched arms screaming “I HOLD THIS BRIDGE! NONE SHALL PASS!” In that case, it was entirely within the realm of possibility that they had all partied a wee bit too hard.

That was probably why Malin banished Patric to the couch that night when he wouldn’t stop snoring.

But at least he had the cellphone video of Sid for posterity.

Even so, Patric had recovered from the alcohol fairly quickly, and figured he’d spend the off day hanging out with Hags. It had been way too long since they’d done so. Hags was coherent when Patric texted and said he could come over whenever that day. 

It was mid-morning when Patric parked in Hags’ driveway and found the front door to be unlocked, as Hags tended to leave it when he expected visitors. Upon entering the foyer, he was immediately greeted by the smoke alarm and Hags screaming from the kitchen.

Fearing the worst, Patric sprinted over to discover Hags standing between the stove and the kitchen island, waving away smoke in one hand and holding a skillet full of charred bacon and sausage in the other. 

“Well, I don’t like my bacon _that_ crispy,” Hags muttered as he set the skillet back down on the stovetop, which he had since turned off.

“See, there’s your problem,” Patric noted, pointing out the heavily-stacked piles in the skillet that had since burned to barely-recognizable char. “You crossed the meats. That’s bad. When you do that, all life as you know it stops instantaneously, and every molecule in your body explodes at the speed of light.”

“Thanks, Spengler,” Hags muttered, rolling his eyes. “Anyway…you’re early.”

“I am?” Patric cocked his head to one side, confused. “You said I could come over whenever.”

Hags glanced behind Patric nervously. “I thought you meant in a couple of hours.”

Patric opened his mouth to ask why, but stopped when he heard a groggy voice behind him. 

“What’s all the racket, eh?” 

Patric turned to discover a stark naked Phil standing in the kitchen doorway, rubbing his eyes with his forearm. It suddenly occurred to him that maybe he should have asked when would be a good time. “Shit. My bad.” 

By this point, Hags had turned his back to them and was cleaning up. “We have company. Put some clothes on.”

“That’s not what you said last night,” Phil quipped with a half-chuckle. Hags threw a potholder at Phil, which landed harmlessly on Phil’s shoulder. Phil picked up the potholder and raised his arm to throw it back, but froze when he realized Patric was standing there.

There were several highly uncomfortable moments of silence before Patric finally managed an awkward “Um…hi.”

Phil looked like a deer in headlights as he glanced at Patric, then Carl, and then back at Patric before his jaw dropped in astounded silence.

“I saw nothing,” Patric stated emphatically.

***

After the embarrassment had worn off, Patric did Hags a favor and drove Phil back home before returning to Hags’ place for a few hours. He knew that Phil and Hags had both gotten hammered at the party, but lost track of them after about the fifth or sixth Rusty Nail—he’d quit keeping track at that point. It turned out they’d taken a cab back to Hags’ place and one thing had led to another. Hags did admit in between rounds of kicking Patric’s ass at Mortal Kombat X that it had actually been their first time.

“Yeah?” Patric mashed his controller’s buttons futilely, and suddenly wished he hadn’t decided to give away all of his game consoles when Malin found out she was pregnant. If he still played on a regular basis, he’d be mopping the floor with Hags and Kitana right now…

“Yeah, though I kinda wish we’d been sober. Not exactly how I pictured our first time, you know?”

Patric nodded in understanding. Hags had always been a romantic at heart. “But you _did_ want to, right?”

“Of course I did. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been thinking about it for a while. I wasn’t even going to bring it up until we’d been together a little longer, but it just _happened,_ you know?”

“Been there,” Patric replied with another sympathetic nod. 

“You were right about everything.” 

“I _told_ you he liked you.” Patric cracked a smile at finally being able to get Hags and Kitana to critical HP. He was finally getting the hang of the controls.

“No, I mean…moving on. I…” Hags narrowed his eyes in concentration, seemingly hoping that gameplay would help him put his feelings into words. “I didn’t think I’d ever have what I had with Mats ever again, but Phil…” Hags’ face brightened as he smiled serenely. “I like him. I mean, I really, _really_ like him.”

Patric couldn’t help but smile as well. “I’ll be your best man.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here.” With that, Hags managed to stage a miraculous comeback and knock out Patric and Raiden. “You lose.”

“What the _fuck?!”_ Patric slammed the controller onto his lap. “I swear to God…”

His luck didn’t fare any better during the next three matches. Much of it was due to not having played video games since giving his consoles away, but he also spent a lot of time mulling over everything Hags had said.

Hags still loved Zucc, and almost certainly would continue to do so. But it was clear there was blossoming love between him and Phil. Patric had known Hags long enough to understand that he didn’t jump into bed with anyone unless he was serious about them to begin with.

Perhaps it was because he had spent the better part of the day thinking about the topic, but Patric couldn’t help but pay extra attention to the photo of himself and Malin at their engagement party that he kept on his nightstand when he caught a glimpse of it that night. 

Patric picked up the frame and stared intently at the photo. Obviously she loved him—her expression in the photo gave it away—but what he hadn’t known back when it was taken was that she had loved someone else at the same time. 

He wouldn’t have been devastated or angry with her had he known. It was only natural. Feelings didn’t always fade, even when they were supposed to. 

Hags and Zucc were a perfect example. They’d broken up, but it didn’t kill their emotions or what they had previously shared. And why would it? They were only human.

Now it was all starting to make sense. 

Hags loved Zucc and Phil. Malin loved Patric and Elias.

So it _was_ possible to love two people at the same time.

If that was so, then maybe, just maybe, there was a name for the torrent of emotions Patric felt towards Marc.

Maybe there was a reason he wanted Marc to stay with the Penguins for the rest of his career, so he could remain close to him. 

Maybe it wasn’t just his mind and his heart playing tricks on him after all.


	17. The Call

Patric wouldn’t have minded the loss so much if the first game of the Eastern Conference Final hadn’t disturbed him so badly. Obviously they didn’t want to start out with a loss, but what had happened to Bishop really threw a pall over things.

Series openers were always a reconnaissance mission of sorts; as both teams would play more cautiously in an attempt to get a feel for one another. But someone going down like that changed everything, especially when the thought entered one’s mind: _that could have been me._

Patric still felt slightly unsettled the following morning even as he tried Malin’s latest experiment with an omelet (a success, as far as he was concerned) while mindlessly scrolling through news on his phone. Isabella seemed preoccupied in her high chair, now that she was starting to get the hang of silverware. She didn’t need to cut up her banana slices _that_ many times, but there was no reason to disturb her.

Malin was still cleaning up in the kitchen when her cell phone rang. She put down the dishrag she was holding before grabbing her phone from one of the kitchen counters.

Evidently it was someone from back home, as Malin answered and spoke in Swedish. 

The sudden pause and immediate transformation of Malin’s expression from cheerfulness to absolute despair told him something was very, very wrong.

Malin’s voice croaked, and she heaved with every word. “Is…Is he…? …Oh. Okay.”

Patric set down his fork and stared intently at Malin through the doorway to the kitchen, narrowing his eyes in concern.

“Do they know what happened?” Malin began pacing around the kitchen as she regained the ability to speak normally. “How is he now? …Yes, but Patric’s still—Right. No, they still have one more round to play before the Finals.”

Patric felt his stomach churn as his heart sank. It had to be one of her family members on the other end. From what he could discern, something terrible had happened to one of her relatives.

“Maybe tonight. Maybe, what with time zones, flying, and— …Right.” Malin had a habit of nodding when she was on the phone, which she was now doing. “Can I bring Isabella? …Okay. …Okay. Right. See you then. Bye.” 

Malin hadn’t even finished putting her phone back on the kitchen counter before Patric sprung out of his chair and rushed into the kitchen. _“Gumman,_ what’s wrong? What happened?”

Malin stood rooted to the ground, numb and expressionless. 

_“Farbror_ Albin…” Malin began before pausing to take a deep breath. “Had a stroke.”

_“WHAT?!”_ Patric’s blood ran cold. Malin’s only remaining _farbror_ was in his early 80s, but had been in excellent health for his age…until then.

“He had a blood clot in his brain.” Malin lowered her eyes and stared blankly at the floor. “He had emergency surgery and they’re monitoring him now. No real word yet otherwise.”

Without another word, Patric threw his arms around Malin, who squeezed hers around his waist. “Do you need me to do anything?”

“You have a game,” she intoned much too calmly for the situation. “You worry about that.”

“Are you sure? I mean…” Patric drew back slightly before his voice trailed off once he got a good look at Malin’s face, which was still devoid of all emotion. 

Malin released his waist and dropped her arms to her sides. “How often do you get the chance to play for the Cup? This is a once in a lifetime chance, _gubben._ Take it.”

Patric nodded solemnly as he recalled Albin’s enthusiasm for hockey, which was probably why he and Albin had always gotten along so well. Albin had wanted to play for Team Sweden when he was younger, but a severe car accident as a teenager ended that dream. If Albin were there and healthy, he’d tell Patric to shut up, quit dawdling, and go for it, albeit in far more colorful language.

“I want to take Isabella with me.”

Another twinge of concern swelled through Patric as he thought of Malin and Isabella making the trip alone. It was hard enough on one person, but one person and a toddler was even worse. “Are you sure? If I ask at the head office, they might be able to find a nanny for—“

“And leave her with a _STRANGER?!”_ Malin straightened her spine and clenched her teeth and fists in blind fury. 

“I…” Patric gingerly took a few steps back, hoping he wasn’t about to start an argument. “I just thought…maybe…”

“I know, _gubben._ I just don’t want to leave her here. I’ll be back by the weekend. I promise.”

“Promise me something else?” 

Malin gazed at Patric inquisitively.

“Keep in touch. I’m gonna be really worried about you two, not to mention Albin.” 

“I will.” Malin nodded in agreement. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep you updated.” Malin then left the kitchen and went upstairs, disregarding the dirty cookware in the sink.

Slowly, Patric walked back into the dining room to check on Isabella and the remainder of his omelet, which had to be stone cold by now. Isabella’s growing proficiency in using silverware had not transferred over to eating, and she was now covered with mashed banana remnants, which had even embedded themselves in her hair. She would definitely need a bath, not to mention a change of clothes.

Patric didn’t mind, though. After all, he wouldn’t be seeing her again for a little while.

***

Malin remained numb until she finished packing, which was when the situation really hit home for her. Then she started crying, and didn’t stop for a long time. Patric did his best to comfort her, but was powerless to stop the tears. 

She’d already bought her plane tickets before she started packing, and would be gone before Patric returned from his team meeting, practice, and media ass-kissing afterward. Vero was giving her a ride to the airport since Patric didn’t have time to do so before he had to be in Cranberry. First he couldn’t comfort Malin, and then he wouldn’t be able to see her and Isabella off. What else could possibly happen that day to make him feel like an even worse husband and father? 

Word got around the locker room pretty fast, even when the only people who had initially known were Sully and Hags. Sully knew first, as Patric had pulled him aside when he arrived at the team meeting to tell him what was going on. Once that conversation was over, all Hags needed to do was take one look at Patric to know that something was wrong before needing to ask.

Even without hearing the news, most of the guys realized something was amiss by just looking at Patric. His body language must have given it away, as he was now walking slowly and staring blankly at the floor instead of forward wherever he went.

Of course Patric appreciated the words of encouragement, but at the same time, they didn’t really help. Words wouldn’t heal Albin or keep him alive, nor would they put Malin and Isabella on a plane back to Pittsburgh. Nor would they send him to Sweden, where he belonged at that moment, even though Malin, and Albin, were he able, would claim otherwise.

He tried to focus during the team meeting. He really did. He got the gist of most of it, but anxiety clouded his senses several times. Sully’s mouth would be moving, but there wouldn’t be any sound. 

Sully was a lifesaver with the media, though. Without going into further detail, he set one ground rule for interviews that day: Patric Hornqvist would not be speaking to anyone that day due to a family emergency, and the team would provide details when they were available. This left Patric free to mindlessly skate repetitive laps around the perimeter of the ice, followed by shooting a massive pile of pucks at the net over and over and over, no matter how many times he missed. When he ran out of pucks, he’d simply collect them all and start all over again. There were a few baffled looks from the other guys, but everyone was too skittish to say anything. 

Patric lost count of how many cracks appeared in the glass panes behind the net as the media crowd dispersed and the other guys left the ice one by one. His muscles screamed in agony, begging him to stop now that he was missing the net far more frequently. Whether the reduced accuracy was due to the pain in his arms and shoulders, the numbness in his legs that affected his stance, or the sweat cascading down his forehead and into his eyes remained unclear. 

There was one puck left before he’d have to go fetch them all for another round. Panting in exhaustion, Patric assumed a backhand stance, raising his stick one more time…

And was unable to take the shot due to something holding his stick in place behind him. 

Bewildered, Patric turned at his waist to look behind him. Had his arms finally given out?

They hadn’t. Marc was standing in his skates and a practice jersey on the other end, clutching the blade with both hands. 

“That’s enough.” If Marc’s disapproval hadn’t already been apparent in his stern tone, the icy glare of admonishment frozen across his chestnut eyes drove the point home with a wooden stake right through Patric’s heart. “Stop. You’re gonna hurt yourself.”

Marc must have felt Patric begin to lower his arms, as he released his grip on the blade shortly before Patric abandoned his stance. A thought suddenly occurred to Patric: should Marc even have been on the ice?

“What are you doing here?” Patric inquired. “You sure you can skate?”

Marc nodded. “I was with the doctors earlier. I’ve been cleared for full contact.” 

Patric’s jaw dropped as he felt his heart soar. “You—you mean—”

Marc nodded, then beamed as he looked Patric straight in the eyes. “I’m all better now.”

Patric grinned and felt the sudden urge to throw his arms around Marc, but immediately scolded himself. It was a horrible, horrible thing to be so happy when Malin and Isabella were on a plane somewhere over the Atlantic to go visit Albin, and there was no telling what shape Albin was in. It was bad enough Patric had feelings for Marc, but for those feelings to suddenly take precedence at a time like this? He truly was a despicable, irredeemable lowlife.

“Pat.” Marc’s tone was now one of concern after watching the rollercoaster of expressions cross Patric’s face. “Seriously, you need to stop. Everyone else went home two hours ago. If Sully knew you were still here, he’d tear you three or four new ones.” 

“Wait.” Patric blinked in sudden realization. “So everyone went home and you were here with the doctors?”

Marc nodded silently.

“I…How long have I been here?”

“Hell if I know,” Marc replied with a shrug. “At least two extra hours.” 

“All right.” Marc was right: the last thing he needed to do was injure himself. Forget Sully; it was Malin who would never forgive him. “Let me get a shower and I’ll go home.”

“That’s better.” Relief cascaded across Marc’s face. “Remember, I’m always around if you need to talk.” 

Patric suddenly remembered the plethora of pucks scattered across the ice. “Shit, I forgot about—”

“I’ll get those. Call me later, okay?”

Patric nodded and headed over to the bench, ignoring the prickling in his legs as he forced a few more strides across the ice out of his throbbing muscles. 

***

There had been several texts from Malin while Patric had been preoccupied. Fortunately, it sounded like the trip was going well. Malin hadn’t heard any news about Albin, so odds were the doctors were still waiting on either tests or observation. He wouldn’t be hearing from her again until she and Isabella reached Zürich, and the plane had boarded half an hour before Patric had checked his phone. This meant he wouldn’t be hearing from her again until later that evening. 

Even though Malin wouldn’t be seeing them anytime soon, Patric sent several short replies letting her know that everyone was thinking about them and fretting about how Isabella would react to the time zone change. It was one thing for either him or Malin to pop an Ambien every now and then if they needed it to adjust, but there was nothing that he felt safe giving to a child. The Benadryl trick that several of the dads throughout the league swore by had always rubbed him the wrong way. 

In the meantime, Patric was sore and tired. Maybe a short nap would help. He took an Aleve, stripped down to his boxer briefs, and climbed into bed. Half an hour or so would do the trick.

Sure enough, he felt much better when he opened his eyes. He turned and looked at the clock radio he kept on the nightstand next to the photo of himself and Malin at the engagement party.

9:30.

_Shit._ That had been almost a six-hour nap.

Patric sprang out of bed and scrambled over to the dresser where he had set his phone. Sure enough, there was a missed call from Malin four hours earlier, which would have put her in Zürich right around that time. For whatever reason, though, she hadn’t left a message. Patric cursed under his breath, realizing that it was probably too late to call back. Earlier, he had wondered how he could possibly be an even worse husband and father. Well, there was his answer.

There were also several severe weather alerts. How in the hell had he slept through all of those as well as a phone call? Patric headed over to the window and opened the blinds. The view outside was partially obscured by raindrops streaked across the glass, and there was already a deluge of water cascading down the hill. He’d managed to sleep through at least one thunderstorm, and from what the alerts on his phone indicated, more were coming. Hopefully the drainage system in his yard and the neighborhood sewers could keep up with all of the rain. The sewers had already backed up once during the previous spring and caused damage to the front yard. 

Perhaps the reason Patric had slept so soundly was because the house was so quiet. Isabella wasn’t making any noise, and Malin wasn’t on the phone with any of her friends or watching any of her shows.

Patric suddenly realized: he had the house all to himself. He could do whatever the hell he wanted.

He could take up the entire bed that night. He could run around in his underwear. He could watch what he wanted to on TV for a change. Hell, he could get on his laptop and watch porn with the sound turned up, were he in the mood.

He would definitely enjoy taking up the entire bed whenever the hell he got back to sleep. The nap was really going to screw with his internal clock. But that wasn’t important at that moment.

The first thing he was going to do with his sudden freedom was raid the pantry. Secondly, he would then sit on the couch in his underwear and binge-watch the _Expendables_ movies. Malin would just roll her eyes whenever he tried pulling out the DVDs, but she never could appreciate such works of genius. 

Patric stampeded out of the bedroom and clambered down the stairs as he made a beeline for the kitchen. There were still tortilla chips and salsa left over from his last cheat day, and best of all, he could eat on the living room couch without getting yelled at. He was making so much noise running around that he almost didn’t hear the thunder outside. Patric wondered again for a brief moment how he slept through the previous storm or storms as the torrential rain echoed outside, then headed right to the fridge. If he remembered correctly, he still had a couple of bottles of Magic Hat Encore left somewhere in the back.

Judging from the pounding echoing throughout the foyer near the kitchen, either the wind was blowing around something heavy outside, or there was someone at the door. 

Patric paused and listened for a moment when he heard the sound again. He suddenly realized: there actually _was_ someone at the door. It was probably a good idea to put on some clothes. 

“Coming!” Patric scurried out of the kitchen and raced back up the steps to the bedroom, making as much of a racket as he did the first time. He threw on the closest thing he could find: a faded grey shirt and a navy blue pair of sleep shorts that had been haphazardly tossed onto the dresser at some point. They clashed horribly, but at least he was decent.

There was one more round of pounding on the door as Patric rushed back down the stairs and over to the foyer, where he unlocked the front door before opening it a crack and peering outside.

There was a car in the driveway and an extremely soaked Marc holding his duffel bag on the front doorstep.

“Pat?” Marc’s face and eyes were nervously pleading, and the anxiety was apparent in his voice. “Can I stay with you tonight?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Farbror: the Swedish term referring to an uncle on your father's side of the family.


	18. Somewhere to Run

“Come in.” Patric threw the door open, allowing Marc to jump inside before he slammed it shut. “How long were you standing out there?”

Marc shrugged as he released the handles of his duffel bag, allowing it to thud unceremoniously to the floor. “Beats me. Your doorbell’s not working. Maybe it’s the rain.”

“Maybe. God, you’re soaked. Hang on, I’ll get you some towels.” Patric bounded back up the stairs and opened the linen closet door, only to be reminded that Malin hadn’t done laundry yet. Of course she hadn’t; something more important had come up. Marc would be getting the last clean towel. Patric could survive until either Malin came home or he grew desperate enough to attempt doing his own laundry, whichever came first.

Patric dashed back down the stairs, towel in tow, and handed it to Marc. “Here.” 

“Thanks.” Marc accepted the towel and kneaded it against his hair. 

Patric figured he might as well cut to the chase. “What are you doing here, anyway? You want to stay over?” His voice rose in confusion upon uttering the last two words.

“Would that be okay?”

“Yeah, but…” Patric paused for a moment, giving himself time to smother his baser instincts. “Why? Did you have a fight with Vero or something?”

Marc lowered his head and nodded timidly.

“Shit.” That had just been a wild guess. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Mind if I get changed first? I want out of these wet clothes.” 

Patric nodded. “Be my guest. I’ll be in the kitchen.”

Once he entered the kitchen, Patric searched the cupboards for where Malin kept the tea kettle. He didn’t even know if Marc drank tea, but he put the water on anyway and pulled the chai looseleaf out of the far right cupboard near the stove. He was nowhere as good as Malin was in the kitchen, but his mom had made him chai tea whenever he had some sort of personal crisis when he was growing up, so he learned how to make it himself fairly early in adolescence. It was now an automatic reflex: if something bad happened, he’d make chai tea. Hopefully this would work as well for Marc as it always did for him. 

Marc was now in a pair of red sleep shorts as he lingered in the kitchen doorway. He hadn’t even bothered with a shirt. Patric’s gaze wandered from Marc’s face and traveled up Marc’s abdomen before he caught and scolded himself. He did _not_ need to be thinking that way, especially when Marc had come over in distress.

Patric stepped over to Marc and handed him one of the mugs of tea he had poured. “Come on, sit down. Let’s talk.” Wordlessly, Marc followed him to the living room and sat down next to him on the couch. Patric pulled two coasters off the tray in the center of the coffee table, knowing full well that Malin would read him the riot act if he didn’t use them. “What happened?”

“Well…” Marc focused mindlessly on the contents of his mug, as if he were trying to divine something from them. “Estelle’s almost old enough for preschool.”

“So…” Patric took a sip of his tea before placing it on one of the coasters. “You were fighting over Estelle?”

Marc nodded, now looking more ashamed than timid. “We’d like her to go somewhere where she can learn and speak both English and French. That’s all Vero and I can agree on.”

“Differing opinions on where to send her?”

“Pretty much. Vero’s looking at those stuck-up private academies where they have eight million activities. She keeps saying we need to take advantage of _opportunities_ for Estelle.” Marc bit his lip in sudden frustration at the thought. “Then she gets mad when I suggest sending her somewhere more unstructured instead.” Marc took a long swig of his tea.

“What do you mean, ‘unstructured’?” Patric had no idea what any of this meant, but considering that Isabella would be that age sooner than he would know it, he knew he should be paying attention. “Like, they just screw around all day?”

“Yes and no.” Marc set his mug down on the free coaster. “I mean, they learn stuff like letters and numbers and do whatever activity you pick for them, but there’s also a lot of time for them to just play. And that’s what I want. Estelle has at least 13 years of school ahead of her. That’s plenty of time for her to be in structured classes. She’s a child. We should let her _be_ one.”

Patric nodded in agreement. “You think the other places would put too much pressure on her?”

“Exactly. I told Vero that those sorts of places overschedule kids to the point where they’re overwhelmed and start to hate school, and she yelled at me. So I started yelling, she yelled some more, and then…”

“Then you left?” 

“Estelle heard us and got upset.” Marc hung his head in shame. “She came in, said ‘don’t fight,’ and the look on her face just…” Marc buried his face in his hands and shook his head. “I just bolted. I grabbed my stuff, jumped in the car, and just started driving…I scared her. I could tell she was going to cry, hearing us screaming like that…”

“Marc—”

“And she’ll remember that and get scared, then want to cry, because I was a monster—”

“Marc, every couple fights sometimes.” Patric placed a reassuring hand on Marc’s shoulder. “My parents did. It freaked me out when I was little, but you know what? I got over it.” 

“I know I made her cry. Now she’ll be scared of me.”

“Not if you explain to her you and her mom just had a disagreement.” 

“But—”

“Marc.” Patric scooted closer to Marc and slid his hand off of Marc’s shoulder and onto his back, pulling him into a half-embrace. “Calm down. Don’t say anything. Just breathe.”

Marc took a long, shaky breath as he reached over and placed his hands on either side of Patric’s waist. Patric snaked his other arm around Marc’s lower back and scooped him into his lap. In response, Marc moved his arms further up Patric’s back as he rested his head just below Patric’s left shoulder. Marc’s breathing slowed as Patric pulled him in closer.

“That’s it,” Patric whispered as he moved a hand upwards to stroke Marc’s hair. “Just breathe.”

Marc tightened his grip on Patric as his breathing finally began to even out. Patric allowed his fingertips to leave Marc’s hair and travel ever so slightly downwards to the side of Marc’s face. His fingers lingered between the edge of Marc’s hair and the cheek line of his beard, gently stroking the traces of bare skin they could locate.

“I fucked up,” Marc sighed as he cradled his head against Patric’s chest.

“Call her and apologize. Then explain how you feel about the school issue. And when she tells you how she feels, _listen to her.”_ Patric found it downright bizarre that he was talking about Vero when he had Marc in his lap and his arms, but he wanted Marc to be able to defuse the situation. He hated seeing Marc so upset.

“Think she’ll pick up if I call her?”

“Well, you stormed out, so she’s probably worried.”

Marc sighed as he released Patric and pulled away, sliding off of Patric’s lap. “Figures. I _really_ fucked up, didn’t I?” 

“It’s nothing you can’t fix.” Patric then heard his own phone ringing in the kitchen. “That must be Malin. Call Vero, okay?” He jumped up and rushed over to the kitchen, where he snatched the phone off of the counter where he had left it. 

“Hey, _gumman.”_ Sure enough, Malin was on the other end. “I thought you were asleep by now.”

_“Älskling,_ I tried calling you earlier.”

“I’m sorry.” Patric’s apology was sheepish, but he also couldn’t help but feel relieved that Malin was still awake. “I fell asleep after practice ended.” She didn’t need to know how much extra time he had spent in bed.

“I figured you had something going on with the team. At least I finally got Isabella to sleep.” 

No wonder Malin was still awake despite the time difference. “Is she doing all right?”

“She’s fine. I just let everyone else pass her around while I was with Albin and Tuva. Tuva’s staying at the hospital, but Isabella and I are at staying at her house.” It made sense. Of course Malin’s _faster_ would be staying with her husband.

“How’s Albin?” 

“He can make noise, but he can’t talk. He knows what you’re saying; he just can’t communicate. But at least he can move both sides of his body.”

“That’s good.” Patric could hear Marc walking around the living room and talking. Thankfully, Marc had taken his advice to call Vero. “Will he ever be able to talk again?”

“The doctors aren’t sure yet. At the very least, they’re hoping he might be able to write sometime in the future, or we can come up with some other way of communication. Either way, he’s got a long road ahead of him, what with therapy, but it looks like he’s escaped the worst.”

“Good. How’s Tuva handling it?”

“As well as anyone could in her situation, I think. She’s looking to hire a home nurse when Albin gets out of the hospital.”

“Glad she got some sense into her.” This was a welcome development. Tuva had always been one to try and do everything herself no matter what the situation, often to her own detriment. 

“Yeah. Anyway, I told Albin why you weren’t here.”

“Did he understand?”

“Oh, yeah. I told him you had one more round to play before being able to play for the Cup, and he just threw his hands out and made this really loud noise. He couldn’t say it, but I could tell he was just so happy…”

Patric felt his heart stutter as he imagined taking the Cup back home and showing it to Albin. He didn’t want to jinx anything, but if only Albin could see it…

“So now, you _have_ to win the Cup. For Albin.”

“Yeah.” Patric’s voice trailed off wistfully as he imagined himself showing Albin his name on the ring, and briefly wondered if Albin could still read. Either way, he’d take Albin’s hand and guide his fingers over the letters, engraving them into Albin’s skin and memory. 

“I’m just so relieved. It could have been so much worse. It sounds like he’ll pull through.”

“Good.” Patric forced himself to stave off his Cup daydreaming as he heaved a sigh of relief. “Tell him that I’ll win it for him, okay?”

“I will. It’s late here; I’d better get to bed. I’ll call you tomorrow, _älskling._ Good night.”

“Good night. I love you.” Patric hung up and placed the phone back on the counter. He could hear Marc pacing around the living room and occasionally speaking, but couldn’t make out anything he was saying. It was just as well; as whatever was being said was none of his business. 

Patric scanned the kitchen mindlessly for a few seconds before noticing the pile of cookware still in the sink. Malin would be upset if it was still there when she and Isabella came home. Since Marc was preoccupied, now was as good of a time as any to take care of it.

Except that Patric didn’t really know what he was doing. The soap and dishrags barely worked on anything he tried to clean. He briefly pondered whether or not an iron skillet could go in the dishwasher when he heard Marc say goodbye to Vero. 

After hearing nothing from the living room for a few moments, Patric headed over and poked his head through the doorway. Marc was back on the couch with his mug of tea. Patric sat down next to him and picked up his previously-forgotten mug, which was pretty much full of lukewarm water at this point. “What did she say?”

“She said more than anything, she was relieved I wasn’t off at a bar or in a ditch. But she did apologize for going off on me.”

“That’s good.” Patric suddenly remembered the storms he had slept through and the region’s penchant for flooding, which made Vero’s latter worry a high possibility. She had probably been worried sick. “Did she want you to come home?”

“She didn’t say anything.” Marc finished the rest of his tea. 

“You sure you don’t want to go home and talk it out with her? I mean, if you still want to stay here, I’m fine with that. I’m just thinking, you should be sure you’re both on the same page.”

“I know what you’re saying. I was thinking about that too. But I’m also wondering if maybe I should let Estelle sleep it off so she’s not so upset tomorrow when I go talk to her. I don’t know. I’m not sure yet.”

A sudden thought occurred to Patric. “You know…she’s right. You could have gone to a bar or just kept driving until the morning. Why did you come here?”

“Because…” An instantaneous flash of panic crossed Marc’s face as he scrambled to collect his thoughts. “Because you get me. Because I’m _safe_ here."

Adrenaline surged white-hot through Patric’s veins as his heart beat so fast he thought it might explode. _He needed someone to listen,_ he told himself. _It’s not what you think._ He needed to change the subject, and fast. “Did you want any more tea?”

Marc nodded. “Please.”

Patric took both mugs back to the kitchen and filled Marc’s with the remainder of the tea before ferrying it back over to the living room. Marc was now standing at the other end of the room with his arms crossed and his back turned towards Patric. Clearly, he was thinking very hard about something, so it was best to leave him alone for a while. 

Patric returned to the kitchen and threw his mug and the rest of the cookware into the dishwasher, but left the iron skillet in the sink. Malin had paid way too much money for that thing for him to risk ruining it, even though he still hadn’t decided whether it was dishwasher safe. 

_Was_ that thing dishwasher safe? Well, that was the internet was for. Patric retrieved his phone and opened Google Chrome with the intention of looking it up. However, he was soon distracted by the other articles that popped up. You actually to _season_ the damn thing? Who had time for that shit? And iron skillets could rust? Why the hell did Malin buy something that could rust? 

Maybe there was something that could keep it from rusting. He’d better look that up while he was still thinking about it. The effort soon devolved into Patric falling into a black hole of Amazon listings and staring in confusion at the “customers also bought” section and wondering what half that shit was.

The sudden staccato of heavy rain against the window reminded Patric that he still had a visitor. Even though he had needed to give him space for a little while, he also didn’t want to be rude. Patric crept over to the living room doorway and peered in to discover that the room was now empty. 

Patric’s initial thought was that maybe Marc was just in the bathroom, but then he noticed that the light over in the foyer was on. He specifically remembered turning it off after letting Marc in and heading to the kitchen the first time. Also, the downstairs bathroom was in the opposite direction of the foyer.

Perhaps Marc was taking his stuff up to the guest room? That seemed to be the case, as when Patric stepped into the foyer to investigate, Marc’s duffel bag was gone. Sure enough, the light illuminating the stairwell and upstairs hallway had been turned on. Marc must have decided to stay the night. 

“Marc?” Patric called as he started climbing the stairs. There was no response. He headed over to the guest room and turned the light on to discover Marc’s duffel bag, but no Marc. Interestingly enough, the bag was also open. Where the hell _was_ he?

Patric turned off the light and walked back into the hallway. He looked around briefly before noticing a light on at the end of the hallway. If the light was there, it was coming from the master bedroom. 

_The hell?_ Patric thought to himself as he approached the doorway of the master bedroom. Sure enough, the light was on, and the door was open a crack. Patric pushed the door open the rest of the way, which elicited a startled gasp from inside of the room.

Patric leaned into the doorway and turned towards the source of the noise to find Marc standing in front of his dresser, holding the handle of the top drawer in one hand and Patric’s missing Meshuggah shirt in the other.


	19. Give Me Tonight

Marc’s jaw dropped as he stared at Patric in stunned silence. 

Patric stared at the shirt for a few moments before having a sudden epiphany. “You’re the one who’s been stealing my shirts all this time, haven’t you?”

Marc nodded shamefacedly and silently.

“Worst prank ever. Come on, you can do better than that. _Way_ better. Like when you—”

Marc’s voice was low and strained, but solemn. “It wasn’t a prank.” 

“…Huh?” Patric tilted his head to one side, confused.

“Just like when we went to Perlé. Remember how Vero was joking about us going on a date?” Marc’s eyes gleamed with earnest as a hint of anger entered his voice. “Well, it _wasn’t_ a joke to me.”

Patric’s eyes grew wide. “You mean…that _was_ a date?”

Marc nodded solemnly. 

Ten thousand bolts of lightning surged throughout Patric’s insides as he finally, _finally_ allowed himself to entertain the pipe dream that maybe, just maybe, all of his fantasies and feelings, for all of this time, were not in vain. “Okay, I’m fine with that…” Well, _that_ was the understatement of the decade. “But why have you been stealing my shirts?” 

Marc lowered his head as he released the shirt, allowing it to fall into the drawer. “Because even if they’re clean, they still smell like you. So many times, when I was alone, I’d just hold them against me and think of you, even though I knew that it wasn’t right, but when I figured out that you’re also into guys, I thought, maybe…” Marc took a deep breath before standing straight up and looking Patric right in the eyes, straight through to his very soul. “I know it’s wrong, and it hurts Vero and the girls that I’m feeling like this, but I’m always thinking of you, and I don’t want to get traded…because I’ve fallen for you.” 

This couldn’t be real. It had to be a dream; yet another one of Patric’s feverish visions. But if it _was_ a dream, then why could Patric feel his heart pounding against his chest, or hear the shortness of his breath echoing against his lips?

Why, if this were only a dream, was his skin on fire, every inch spontaneously combusting as he strode forward slowly yet purposefully? And why could he feel the wood of the drawer against his hand as he pushed it shut?

This had to be real. Active as they were, Patric’s imagination and baser instincts couldn’t have conjured all of the events leading up to this moment all on their own. Nor were they capable of tactile invocations.

“So…” Patric spoke breathlessly; huskily as excitement and intent lowered his voice a couple of octaves. “Falling for me is wrong?”

Marc nodded. “I’m cheating on Vero whenever I dream about you, but I can’t stop myself…”

Emotion gave way to instinct, which gave way to action as Patric lunged forward, encircling Marc’s waist with one arm and resting the other across Marc’s back as he pressed their bodies together. Almost immediately, he tilted his head and drove their mouths together, finding the softness of Marc’s lips even through the force and desperation of the kiss.

This most definitely was not a dream. Dream Marc would not have a fist in Patric’s hair pulling his head closer to deepen the kiss even more, nor would his other hand slide underneath the hem of Patric’s shirt and caress the curve of Patric’s back, dancing across the naked skin. Dream Marc most certainly would not have opened his mouth and began massaging Patric’s lips with his tongue, coaxing them open, before gliding into the freshly opened mouth and caressing Patric’s tongue with his own.

_This was really happening._

And it was so much better than Patric could have ever imagined. Patric had never imagined Marc to be a pushover or passive in bed, but never in his wildest dreams did he ever think Marc would be this aggressive.

He barely had time to linger on the thought when the sheer force of Marc’s tongue pinned his own down in place. Suddenly, both of Marc’s hands were splayed across the small of his back and tangled in the hem of his shirt, inching the material upwards before pausing just below Patric’s shoulders. 

Marc released Patric’s tongue and pulled away, gasping for breath as he stared intently into Patric’s eyes.

Patric took a few moments to steady his breathing before plucking his thoughts from the maelstrom of emotion and yearning swirling throughout his entire being. “If what you and I both feel is wrong, then I don’t want to be right.” 

“You mean…” Marc tilted his head slightly upwards, eyes brimming with both hope and longing. “All this time…and neither of us knew?”

“I didn’t think you were into guys,” Patric admitted.

“Neither did I.” Marc rose up for a brief kiss as he pulled himself closer and pushed the material in his hands upwards before pausing to allow Patric to raise his arms so he could remove the shirt and toss it aside. “But I’m really into you.” 

As fucking incredible as it was to have Marc removing his clothes, Patric couldn’t dismiss the nagging thought that they were headed into extremely dangerous territory, and he should put on the brakes. “Marc, are you sure about this? I mean, _think—”_

“I’ve had almost two years to think about this.” Marc placed his hands on Patric’s arms as he gazed at Patric intently, looking right through to him. “No matter how many times I tell myself it’s wrong, I can’t deny how I feel about you.” Marc squeezed Patric’s arms as his eyes widened, pleading earnestly. “Pat, you’re not stupid. You know how well Matty’s been playing. I guarantee I’ve already lost the starting job to him. I might not even be on the team next year.”

“But your contract—”

“It doesn’t mean anything if they renegotiate Matty’s at the end of the season. I’ll still be the odd man out. Pat…” Marc paused and took a deep breath, searching for the right words. “I don’t want to jinx anything; but I don’t know how the rest of the playoffs will pan out, and we may never get another chance again.” Marc slid his hands up onto Patric’s shoulders and angled upwards for a slow kiss. “I want you. I want all that you are. So, please…give me everything.”

Patric took a deep breath in an attempt to control his rapidly pounding heart as he gently rested his hands on Marc’s waist. “You’ve never done this with another guy before, have you?”

Marc shook his head. “No.”

“If you don’t like anything, just say so, and I’ll stop. All right?”

“Okay,” Marc replied with a nod before moving forward for another kiss.

Patric removed his hands from Marc’s waist before taking Marc’s hand and gently guiding him over to the edge of the bed, where they promptly sat down before throwing their arms around one another and driving their mouths together once more. Patric eased Marc onto his back with a deep kiss and a gentle push to Marc’s shoulders.

He was just about to shift his position when he caught a glimpse of the photo of himself and Malin on the nightstand. Malin’s eyes were suddenly far more penetrating as the photo stared right back at him.

Patric reached over and grabbed the photo, then set it face down on the nightstand before bearing down onto Marc as he had originally intended. 

They lunged into another kiss that never really ended as lips, tongues and teeth blended into one continuous convergence; the burning heat intensified by the hands sliding down Patric’s back and underneath the waistbands of his pants and boxer briefs. Marc’s fingers snaked across Patric’s spine and tailbone, zigzagging repeatedly across the same spots as the hands remained firmly in place.

Patric could spend the next thousand years kissing Marc like this, and it still would not be enough. The closeness of their bodies, Marc’s powerful and unrelenting mouth and tongue, the insistent hands on his back, and the carnal euphoria of it all sent him reeling into a beautiful insanity. He could come from this alone, from the sheer nirvana of simply making out.

But Patric wanted more. So much more. 

Patric forced himself to breathe as he pulled back slightly, extending his arms as he felt Marc trying to push the remainder of his clothes down his legs.

“Settle down, tiger,” Patric purred. “I’m just getting started.” Without another word, he dove back down and closed his mouth around a patch of skin on the left side of Marc’s neck, eliciting a moan.

The sound went straight to Patric’s already rock-hard cock, spurring him to continue worshiping the skin as he wished he could leave impressions behind. He suddenly wanted to brand Marc, to imprint him as truly _his._

He couldn’t without arousing suspicion, so he settled for the next best thing: covering every inch of Marc’s neck with his lips and tongue, thrilling at the gasps and whimpers with every mercurial stroke.

Patric pulled back when he felt Marc trying once again to push his clothes off. Once Marc had exhausted the range of motion in his arms, Patric climbed off of him and removed his shorts and boxer briefs himself before tossing them across the room.

“God…” Marc heaved through his open mouth, eyes wide and dilated with arousal as he reached for Patric with both hands. “You’re so fucking gorgeous…” Marc’s hands found Patric’s chest and lovingly stroked up and down, side to side, occasionally tracing circles around one of Patric’s nipples. “I can’t stare at you too long in the locker room or I start getting hard…”

Patric smiled as he ran his fingers through Marc’s hair. There would be no more secrets between them. “I can’t look at you too much either, or I start imagining your legs wrapped around me.” 

Marc extended his left arm and reached up to stroke Patric’s face. “I like your eyes.”

“Yeah?” Patric moved his head slightly and pressed a kiss to Marc’s palm.

“Yeah. Especially when they’re looking at me.” 

“I like your eyes, too.” Patric moved closer and leaned over until he was inches from Marc’s face. “Such a pretty brown…” Patric pressed a kiss to Marc’s lips as he threaded Marc’s hair through his fingers. “I like your hair…So soft. … I like your mouth. Those lips are just begging to be kissed.” Without another word, Patric climbed back on top of Marc and moved back down for a long, lingering kiss.

Marc squirmed as he returned the kiss, bucking his hips against Patric’s.

But Patric wasn’t done.

“I like your neck,” Patric breathed as he broke the kiss. “So sexy, and I love the sounds you make when I do this…” Patric kissed a slow trail down Marc’s neck to his collarbone, thrilling at the catching in Marc’s voice and breath at every feather-light touch.

“I like your chest.” Patric watched Marc’s eyes flutter shut as he gently stroked Marc’s sternum. “Perfect, just like you.” Patric’s hands slid down to Marc’s biceps. “I like your arms. Nobody ever pays attention to those, though they should.” 

Marc opened his eyes and beamed. “Yeah?”

“They should pay more attention to _all_ of you.” Patric took Marc’s left hand in both of his and lifted it into midair before bending down to kiss the back. “I like your hands. So nimble, yet so gentle.” He kissed the hand one more time before tenderly setting it back down on the bed.

Finally, it was time to unwrap Marc. Patric grabbed the sides of Marc’s shorts and what appeared to be briefs and pulled everything down and off Marc’s legs before tossing them onto the floor.

Any time he was in any locker room, Patric always made it a point to keep his gaze fixed directly in front of him. After all, he was surrounded by teammates, many of whom were quite attractive, and if he accidentally caught a glimpse of the wrong spots or looked too long, he might start thinking the wrong things, no matter how platonic everything stayed.

His personal rule had been especially important with Marc, considering the feelings that had been smoldering within him for almost two years. Because of that, this was the first time he truly saw Marc naked, as opposed to the accidental glance, upon which he would force himself to avert his eyes towards the ceiling before things got awkward.

From what little Patric had seen previously until now, Marc was definitely a grower, not a shower. By no means was Marc’s cock huge, but it was definitely bigger than he had expected. The head was already leaking precome, some of which had dribbled into the mound of hair underneath. 

There would be plenty of time to worship Marc’s cock later. There was one more thing Patric needed to do.

“I like your legs.” Patric moved down to the edge of the bed and gently spread Marc’s legs before crawling between them. “Always want them wrapped around me…” He crouched down and gave Marc’s left calf a quick nip before arching up to kiss and nibble the attached thigh.

Marc grunted in frustrated arousal. “Unh, Pat, _please…”_

Patric lifted his head to look at Marc as a mischievous smile crossed his face. “I’ve waited just as long for this as you have. I’m gonna take my time and enjoy it.” Patric leaned back down and kissed his way up Marc’s thigh, punctuating his next sentence with kisses. “Every…last…second…” He emphasized his point by grazing a spot on Marc’s upper thigh with his lips and teeth, prompting Marc to curse under his breath.

Marc’s eyes fluttered shut, then opened just as quickly when Patric pushed himself up into a kneeling position. His mouth had fallen open and was now panting small, sharp breaths of desire as he watched Patric in anticipation.

“I like the sounds you make,” Patric purred as he gently wrapped his right hand around Marc’s cock, triggering a harsh gasp. “Yeah, just like that…So fucking sexy…” Patric smiled devilishly as he leaned over and propped himself on his left elbow. “Now, what kind of sounds can I get you to make if I do this?” With that, Patric grasped Marc’s cock more firmly and gave it a few long, slow pulls.

Marc threw his head back and moaned. “God, yes, _please_ …keep going…”

The mischievous chuckle forming in the back of Patric’s throat evaporated as he crouched down and quickly flicked his tongue over the tip twice, catching a couple drops of precome before circling once below the head. He gave Marc’s cock one more gentle pull before releasing it and tilting his head to one side as he moved down to the base, then opened his mouth and gently pressed his lips against the length before slowly arching upwards and dragging them back to the head.

Marc remained silent when they made eye contact as Patric pushed himself onto his hands and knees, but his expression conveyed everything Patric ever needed to know. 

Patric gave Marc one last look as he sucked on the head for a few moments before inching the rest of the way down, moving slowly back and forth a few times to get everything wet before drawing back and slipping his tongue under the edge of the foreskin and darting it repeatedly around the entire width.

 _“Fuck!”_ Marc placed his hand on the back of Patric’s head during the outburst, but did not push down. Instead, it was almost a tender gesture as he simply rested his hand in place; allowing Patric to dictate the pace as he retracted his tongue and slid back and forth, indulging in every single gasp and moan.

Marc’s patience truly was a virtue. It had been almost five years since Patric had done gone down on a man, and the muscle memory was taking more time to return than he liked. What was instantaneous, however, was the sheer dominion he felt; the power he wielded as he alternated between engulfing Marc’s length in his mouth and drawing back to focus solely on the head and tip with his mouth and tongue. Patric always had loved giving as much as he did receiving, and the fact that he was _actually sucking Marc’s cock_ threatened to rend him asunder; to fire scattershot fragments of his spirit throughout the cosmos.

Once he felt his soft palate relax sufficiently, Patric moved all the way down and opened his throat as much as possible, nestling the head of Marc’s cock as far back as he could and hoping that he was far enough down to reach the edge of the foreskin.

Patric raised his eyes when he felt the hand on the back of his head move and made immediate eye contact with Marc, remaining still as he felt Marc’s fingers run through his hair and watched Marc grit his teeth as he tried and failed to breathe normally.

As much as Patric thrilled in watching the erotic delirium play out across Marc’s face, his gag reflex was beginning to kick in. He immediately withdrew himself from the entire length and reared back up onto his knees, gasping heavily.

“Fuck…” Marc’s voice cracked slightly as he initially failed to complete his thought. “Where have you been all my life? You’re so much better than Vero.”

“Yeah?” Patric inquired with a smile before wiping his mouth with the side of his forearm.

“That was the best fucking blowjob I have _ever_ gotten.”

“Was?” Patric repeated in confusion. 

Now it was Marc’s turn to smile devilishly as he rolled onto his right side and eyed Patric seductively. “So…you gonna fuck me?”

“Uh…” Despite everything that had just happened, the question still took Patric by surprise. He would have been perfectly fine with Marc coming in his mouth, considering Marc’s situation, but apparently Marc also wanted as much as he did. “Are you sure?”

Marc nodded and swallowed slowly before speaking again. “Sometimes when I’m alone, I use my fingers on myself and imagine that it’s you…”

Patric felt his temperature rise as he suddenly pictured the scene in his mind. “Shit, that’s hot.” 

Marc’s only response was that cute, boyish smile, clouded over by the haze of passion in his eyes.

Without another word, Patric reached for the handle of the top nightstand drawer and retrieved the bottle of lube inside. Although the supply was getting low, thankfully there was enough. He pushed the drawer shut and tossed the bottle onto the bed next to him before glancing back at Marc, who was watching him expectantly.

“Roll over on your back again.” Even though Patric was still mulling over positions, he was also trying to think of what would be easiest for Marc, who was basically a virgin when it came to this sort of thing. When Marc obeyed and spread his legs without needing to be told, Patric retrieved the bottle from where he had thrown it and looked Marc up and down as he applied some lube to his fingers before rubbing them together to warm it up. “So…you do this when you think of me?”

Marc nodded silently, then fidgeted slightly as he watched Patric’s fingers approach his opening.

“Hold still.” As he slowly slipped one finger inside of Marc, Patric realized just how sound the command had been. Even though Marc said he had experimented with this sort of thing before, he was still pretty tight, so Patric would need to go slowly. Though with Marc being so tight, the real challenge would be not coming in five seconds. Even though Marc began to relax as he slowly shimmied his finger around, he was still tighter than Patric would have cared for. Despite that, Marc didn’t seem to mind, and appeared eager when Patric slid a second finger in.

Patric looked Marc right in the eyes, looking right into _his_ soul for a change. “So, when you use your fingers on yourself…” He quickly thrust his fingers against Marc’s prostate once, eliciting a jump and a strangled wail before slightly retracting and scissoring them. “Does it feel like this?”

Marc opened his mouth to reply, but could only gasp for breath before finally working up the ability to answer. “No…You’re— _ah_ —so good, please…don’t stop…”

“How many fingers do you use?”

“T—” Marc’s reply was interrupted by a sharp gasp. “Two…usually…”

“Usually?”

Marc nodded. “Yeah, maybe three… _ah_ …if I’m really— _unh_ —”

“Think you can take three?” The question also served to determine how gentle Patric would need to be. Thankfully, Marc was responding well, but the fear of hurting or scaring him remained in the back of Patric’s mind.

Marc swallowed and took a deep breath. “Yeah. Go ahead.”

Patric looked back down and withdrew his first two fingers before adjusting and crossing a third over them. Once he felt satisfied with their arrangement, he gently poked at Marc’s rim a few times before beginning to slide them inside. This time, Marc opened right up and almost swallowed them as Patric pushed all the way up to the third knuckles.

“Ah, _fuck!”_ Marc’s eyes were almost all pupil now as he regarded Patric through gritted teeth and occasional gasps during every thrust and twitch of the fingers. “Fuck, don’t stop, please…”

“Feels good, huh?” Patric hissed through his teeth as he repeatedly found and prodded Marc’s prostate. The only response was a guttural moan. “Well, if you think _that_ feels good…” Patric grinned as he thrust his fingers against Marc’s most sensitive spot one more time, allowing himself to get just a little rough. “Just think how my cock’s gonna feel.”

Marc squeezed his eyes shut as he drew a long, deep breath. “God, Pat, _please,_ fuck me…”

As he withdrew his fingers and retrieved the lube, Patric reminded himself of the need to remain gentle, at least unless Marc told him otherwise. Marc was definitely ready, but fingers and cocks were two entirely different things, and there was the possibility of hurting him.

“Tell me if I’m hurting you, okay?” Patric watched Marc nod as he finished slicking himself up, then rubbed some of the excess lube on Marc for good measure. 

Suddenly, a good position came to mind. It wasn’t the best for beginners like Marc, but Marc was right: this could be their only chance. Patric figured if that was the case, he might as well go all out and go for what he imagined the most frequently.

Patric’s grin was devious, almost obscene. “Let’s see just how flexible you are.” Judging by Marc’s laughter in response, he wasn’t asking for too much. 

Sure enough, Marc offered absolutely no resistance as Patric grabbed one ankle and put it on his shoulder, then the second, and repeated the process before positioning himself over Marc and resting on his forearms. “Ready?” 

When Marc replied affirmatively, Patric held his breath before pushing in a couple of inches. Sure enough, Marc tightened back up, requiring Patric to remain still until he felt Marc relax enough to try advancing any further. He glanced down questioningly as he pressed forward a little more; interpreting Marc’s imploring eyes and flushed expression as permission to continue until their hips were evenly aligned. 

It was at that moment Patric suddenly remembered the need to breathe. However, the long, centering breath was immediately stifled by the inhuman groan beneath him. 

Patric’s eyes snapped all the way open as he immediately focused on Marc’s face. “Do you need me to stop?”

“N—no, please…” Marc panted as he forced the words out, then placed his hands on the backs of Patric’s arms. “It’s good…keep going…”

Patric remained motionless for a few moments longer, breathing deeply as he watched Marc closely; reading every single thought and emotion through the prism of Marc’s eyes, and wondering if Marc was prescient enough to observe the same within his own. Marc was still rather tight, which required Patric to remain focused; to not hurt him or come too soon, the latter of which was becoming a taller order by the second. 

Initially, Marc squeezed Patric’s cock like a vise. However, as Patric began to move slowly, the grip loosened and evolved into a lascivious embrace: squeezing, caressing, and gently letting go before repeating the process over again.

Patric swallowed slowly as he finally regained the ability to speak. _“Fuck,_ baby, you feel _amazing…”_

Marc moved one of his hands up to stroke Patric’s hair. “Never thought I could ever have you…” 

“Never thought you’d want me…” Patric leaned in for a brief kiss before increasing his pace; moving into the steady, moderate tempo he preferred.

It wasn’t just the sensation of skin gliding against skin, or the exquisite constraint of Marc’s recesses gripping his length that nearly sent Patric soaring to untold heights. The noises Marc made with every thrust of Patric’s hips nearly dragged him under; a constant stream of gasps, whimpers and moans pulling him into the seas of ecstasy. 

Marc had the best of both worlds. Not only was Patric’s relentless pace driving him closer and closer by the second, but the friction between their sandwiched bodies stroked Marc’s dick with every thrust as well. Seeing Marc like this was almost enough to make Patric jealous.

Almost.

Their position kept Patric’s hands steadfastly in place, but Marc had his full range of motion in his arms. In one tender moment, Marc took full advantage of it when he placed his hands on the back of Patric’s head, pulling him close as he stared right into the core of Patric’s being.

Even though he was not quite at the brink of orgasm, the gesture was enough for Patric to see the light of heaven as they both bared their complete selves to one another; body, mind, and soul.

Tenderness soon gave way to wanton need as Marc’s fingers tangled themselves in Patric’s hair.

“Pat, _please…”_ Marc begged in a thoroughly wrecked tone. “Harder…”

“Keep your hands where they are,” Patric ordered breathlessly before driving his hips back and forth as quickly and powerfully as he could, panting heavily as he began to worry that he might not outlast Marc.

His worry was alleviated when he felt the telltale surge of warmth against his stomach. Marc kept his gaze fixed on Patric as he growled through gritted teeth for several long moments, keeping his hands firmly in place as Patric drove every last spasm out of him.

Between the spasms below him and the tightness building up within, Patric knew he wouldn’t be long himself. He gave Marc a few moments to recover before asking, “Can I come inside you?”

Marc nodded and stroked Patric’s hair, as if he were trying to spur Patric on through the sudden series of frantic, forceful thrusts before Patric pushed in as deep as he could before fully collapsing onto Marc, coming with a shrill cry. 

Even though doing so was difficult, Patric knew that he needed to move for Marc’s sake. With trembling arms, he pushed himself back up into a kneeling position before reaching down and pulling out. Marc got the idea and removed his legs from Patric’s shoulders before returning them to the bed. 

Patric moved to lay down next to Marc, who rested his head on Patric’s chest before placing a hand there as well. 

As Patric wrapped his arm around Marc, he finally found the ability to define exactly what all of his feelings had been for nearly the past two years as he looked into Marc’s eyes. “I love you.” 

“I love you.” Marc angled his neck upward for a kiss before returning his head to Patric’s chest. 

Neither of them spoke for several long moments as they came down, with Patric idly threading his fingers through Marc’s hair while Marc mindlessly trailed his fingers up and down Patric’s left hip. Even when they had both returned to solid ground, Marc continued to wear an expression of astonishment.

“Something on your mind?” Patric asked.

“I…” Marc swallowed as he collected his thoughts. “That was…wow. Holy fucking shit. I _have_ been missing out.” 

Patric couldn’t help but laugh before immediately scolding himself. “Sorry. I shouldn’t laugh at that.”

“Nah, it’s all good.” Marc lifted his head and eyed Patric seductively. “I may have to start playing for both teams now.”

“Really, now?” Patric raised an eyebrow. “I can help with that.”

“Well, no matter what…” Marc rolled onto his side and kissed Patric’s cheek. “I need to figure out how to start rooming with you at away games.” 

Patric chuckled into a beaming, beatific smile. “Now you can’t get enough?”

Marc flashed a radiant smile to match Patric’s. “Just as long as it’s you.” 

“I was wondering…” Patric rolled onto his side to face Marc. “Did you have any idea this was gonna happen when you wanted to stay over?”

“Not at all.” Marc shook his head. “But when I was out driving, it suddenly occurred to me that I should come here.”

“Because you’re safe here, right?”

Marc nodded before gazing attentively at Patric. “Because I’m always safe with you.”

“Just think…” Patric reached up to stroke Marc’s hair again. “If you and Vero hadn’t had that fight, you never would have come here. And we never would have found out how we felt about another.”

“I know. And yet, it happened.” Marc moved closer for a prolonged kiss, then smiled euphorically once more as he drew back. “It must be fate.”


End file.
